Stripped Desire
by MrzEdCullen
Summary: Logic and art, numbers and paint—two different worlds from each other. Life made them collide, but one dangerous request could lead to much more than what they bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: SM owns.**_

* * *

**Stripped Desire—Prologue**

_"A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions."_

_Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. ~_

* * *

I'm hyperventilating.

My heart is racing as I unbutton my coat, desperate to get out of it.

I take slow, calming breaths until my head clears. I look around and realize I'm in a small bathroom. I splash water on my face and start counting. It used to work when I was a kid.

When I get to 43, I realize it continues to work. My breathing is back to normal, even though I can feel my heart in my mouth.

My skin is still tingling, and I remember what Edward said about the humming. I think I know what he meant. I feel a mixture of paralyzing fear and desperate anticipation. This has been the most intense feeling I've felt in a while.

Focusing on my eyes in the mirror above the sink, it hits me. This is why I said yes. This is why I'm doing this. This sensation running through my veins is what I've been craving for without knowing.

Breathing deeply, I undo the buttons of my dark blue blouse.

Then I lose my skirt.

Left in only my black high-heeled boots, my stockings, and my underwear, I take inventory of my body.

Not a Victoria's Secret model, or a porn star but just a regular girl. A girl with healthy eating habits, good genes, soft curves, and small bones.

Spotting the white robe Edward mentioned earlier, I get out of my remaining clothes.

The material is see-through, soft and cold on my heated body. My heart is still racing, and my hands are trembling as I fix my hair into a low bun.

I count to 78 before I'm able to step outside the room.

I walk with caution back to the living room. Edward's facing the mural, his back to me, arranging a lamp, and then bending over to mess with the blankets on the floor.

I don't say anything as I walk. Staring at him gives me a sick sense of satisfaction. Like payback or revenge. Only I don't seem to affect him as much as he affects me.

"We'll take breaks, but if you need something you can tell me and we stop," he says, startling me. I didn't know he noticed I was here.

"Okay," I say, and try to get my voice not to sound as shaky as I feel. When he turns around and looks at me, I could melt.

His eyes are as intense as ever, drinking in every inch of my almost naked body.

He licks his lower lip and I burn.

He mutters, 'fuck' under his breath, and I ache.

I feel like smirking at his reaction, but I'm not capable of much right now. I focus on his eyes, watching them flicker down.

Then, some resolve takes over him and his face is the perfect picture of collected.

"Okay, let's get started."

* * *

_**A.N.: Happy almost birthday Sunflower Fanfiction and thank you for everything!**_

_**Mari and Gingerandgreen, you're both awesome.**_

_**Chapter One will be up on Wednesday. **_

_**See you then.**_


	2. Gallery

**SM owns.**

**Thanks to:**

**Mari and Sunflower Fanfiction for beta'ing and Gingerandgreen for pre-reading.**

**Sarah (LittleGreyAche | Yellowglue) for the inspiration and support.**

**Everyone reading. **

* * *

**Stripped Desired – Chapter 1: Gallery**

"_Routine is liberating, it makes you feel in control." _

_Carol Shields, The Republic of Love.~_

* * *

The alarm goes off at 5:50 am. I get up and do five minutes of stretching before taking a shower. I set the temperature to medium, teetering on cold. Once showered and towel dried, I take the hanger labeled Monday, and start getting dressed.

Black lace underwear

Black stockings

Black silk camisole

Dark grey, long sleeved dress

Black, high-heeled boots

Black, long coat

I'm ready at 7:05 sharp.

As always.

I walk the block that separates my place from the subway station in quick but careful steps. New York City in January is a dangerous place to walk in heels, but it beats driving in the snow any time.

The subway is brimming with life when I get there. People are in the 'New Year, new everything' phase that makes them so cheerful it borders on annoying. I try my best to ignore them all, but I end up paying attention to the young boy who is using his fingers to choreograph music he is listening to. It looks graceful and effortless as if he was born doing it.

I shake my head at myself and my tendency to think of fancy words to catalog the street art that I see. By the time I get to my station, the kid has a crowd around him, and his whole body has joined his fingers in movement. For me, it has lost the allure.

A few steps take me to my building, and I breathe a sigh of relief, craving the comfort and security that these walls bring me. The security guy greets me and allows me past the entrance, motioning me toward the elevators.

"Please tell me your underwear is red," Alice says when she sees me waiting for the elevator doors to open.

"What?"

"You've got to have some color on you."

"My nails are painted pink," I reply with a frown on my face, just as the doors open.

She snorts.

Alice and I make our way into the headquarters, opening it for the first time after the holidays. Our secretary, Lauren, is waiting for us outside. She greets us in her usual, polite manner and immediately offers to get our coffees.

I chat with Alice for a few minutes before walking toward my office.

I sit at my desk and turn on my computer, checking the calendar glued to my table. I smile when I see all the information written on it. Business is looking good. I'll be busy for several weeks.

Just how I like it.

Lauren brings me my coffee, and I lose myself in numbers for the day.

The rest of the week is a normal remake of Monday.

My routine exists for a reason.

It works.

It's safe.

* * *

"I'm coming over," Alice says on the phone, on Friday night. I'm sitting on my bed, arranging my errand schedule for next week.

"What?" I ask, confused. I'm not expecting her.

"Jasper's going to be working all night, and I need entertainment."

"Alice," I say, feeling hopeless. I'm not in the mood to entertain guests.

"Don't worry. I'll bring dinner. See you in ten."

She hangs up.

I stay looking at the phone with a frown.

It's past eight.

I already ate dinner.

It's not the first time Alice has been to my apartment. I do consider her a friend, and we have been partners for two years. I have shared meals with her before, but it's always been planned and on my terms.

There's no place for spontaneity in my world.

"I brought Chinese-Mexican," she announces when I open the door. She shows me the two, brown paper bags she's carrying, before walking past me.

"Okay."

"It's from that new place on our street. It's supposed to be great," she says, making herself at home in my kitchen while I watch from the doorway.

"Of course," I say, rolling my eyes. I don't know how many times I've heard that before.

She sits on the breakfast table and digs into her food. I stay silent for a while, watching her devouring the contents of the plastic box. For such a tiny person, Alice sure does eat a lot of unhealthy food. She notices me staring and waves me over.

I walk closer, but don't join her.

"I brought enough for the both of us," she says, sipping a green-colored liquid.

"I already ate."

"So?"

"So...I'm not hungry." Plus, I usually avoid having dinner past eight. Grandma Swan would disown me. I keep that last bit to myself, although I'm sure she knows it.

"Oh!" she says, jumping off the chair. "Jasper wanted me to give you this." She cleans her greasy fingers on her jeans before producing a red envelope out of her back pocket and hands it to me.

"It's for the gallery opening this next week," she says. I nod at her and read the information. It's a creative invitation design, edgy and modern.

"Is this where Jasper is tonight?" I ask and sit down on one of the breakfast stools.

"Yes. This close to the opening and with everything they want to do, things are hectic." She resumes her eating, and I mull over her words.

"I still think it's unfair that Jasper's doing all the work," I finally say. His long-lost business partner should've arrived weeks ago.

"You do all the work in our company," Alice says.

"That's not true." Sometimes I wonder how I would manage myself without her. I might be the one dealing with numbers and strategies, but if it weren't for her, we wouldn't have clients for me to work for. As much as I enjoy being independent, it's been a matter of teamwork.

"It's fine," she says. "I don't care. I'm happy earning easy money. Not everyone can have morals and crap."

She winks, and I laugh.

* * *

The alarm goes off at 6:30 am on Saturday morning. I have multiple errands to run that I have no time for on my workdays. After my stretches and my shower, I get dressed in the clothes I laid down yesterday: jeans, a tank top, a sweater and a coat.

After a quick breakfast, I grab a messenger bag and my to-do-list.

Once in the mall, I find a knee length, long sleeved, dark green dress. Its heart-shaped collar is modest, and it's an outfit I can see myself wearing again, which makes it practical and a great buy.

I also eat lunch in one of my favorite restaurants just crossing the street from the mall.

At the end of the day, I take a cab back to my place and declare this outing a success.

Everything went according to plan.

* * *

"Hey, Mom."

"Hello, Isabella." My mother's voice comes from the other end of the phone, civilized as always. There's no surprise or other type of inflexion in her tone. I don't know what else I expected. It's not like she wasn't waiting for my call.

Every Sunday, 1:00 sharp. I have never been late.

"How's everything?" I ask, ruffling through my agenda, underlining stuff here and there.

"Everything's wonderful," she says, in an obvious manner. As if I should already know the answer.

"We just got home from a delightful lunch with some of your father's business partners. You should've been here. You would've loved the food," she goes on.

"That's wonderful, Mom. Sorry I missed it," I say on pilot mode. The pause that follows is just as expected as my rushed goodbye.

"So, Mom, give my best to everyone, okay?"

"Did you know Michael Newton just got back to town?" she asks, deflecting. "He asked me about you the other day. Oh, I wish you would've seen his face when I told him you were still living in New York. He was devastated."

"I'm sure he was," I answer, annoyed at the turn of this conversation.

"It's such a shame that you picked that city to live in," she says, and lets just the right amount of despair into her tone to play the guilt card. "So far away, so hectic—New York is not everyone's cup of tea."

"Yeah, you're right about that," I say. "Listen, Mom, I have to go, so we'll talk later, okay?"

I hang up as soon as I hear her mutter her goodbye.

I waste the rest of the day rearranging my already perfect schedule.

* * *

"How do you get here before I do? I live closer!" Alice says, dumping her purse on my desk.

"Because I wake up earlier than you, and I take less time getting dressed," I answer, typing some information into an Excel sheet.

"And yet, you always look amazing," she says with a pout. I give her a tiny, yet smug smile.

"Bitch," she adds before shifting to business mode. We spend the entire morning going over stuff that needs to be done. I'm in a zone, and so is she, until we're out of pressing matters to talk about, and she turns the tables on me.

"So, how are you?" she asks.

"I'm fine," I answer and open up another Excel document.

"No, I mean, how are you, really?" she asks again.

I can feel her searching my eyes, but I refuse to look at her. There's no way I'm engaging in a heart to heart talk with Alice about my love life, or lack thereof. Especially not on a workday, and certainly, not on a Monday.

"I said I'm fine, Alice."

My reply is enough to get her to back off, closing the door harder than acceptable. I feel awful for about a second.

Then I remember my failed attempts at both long and short-term relationships and decide that my attitude was for the best.

* * *

Thursday finds me exhausted from all the work I've done this week. My beauty salon appointment couldn't have been better received.

Even though Jasper's gallery opening isn't elite styling material, I plan to look well presented. Any social gathering is an opportunity. Or so I've been taught.

There's no such thing as discrimination in this area. Business can come from any type of person, whether a street-art aficionado or suit-clad banker. It's the motto my family has lived by, and it's the one that has kept our company running.

I like Jasper and I'm happy for him and the realization of his dream, but I'm not going with expectations of enjoying the showcase. There's a big chance I will end up buying something out of obligation, though.

"Miss Swan?" The girl at the counter calls up to me, bringing me out of my thoughts. She smiles too much, but it's fake. I follow her to the washing station. The regular hairdressers welcome me and we chat for a while. I can sense the forced-politeness in them.

I tune them all out and enjoy the soothing massage on my scalp.

"Mani-Pedi today?" Charlotte—my usual stylist—asks me when she's finishing drying my hair. I nod and smile. That's my favorite part. She gives me a knowing look and calls out to the girl who will be doing my nails, Kim.

"Waxing?" Kim asks, chewing gum. I shake my head, knowing she doesn't mean my legs. She gives me a weird look as if I'm expected to wax everything every time I come here.

I don't call her out on her bitchy, silent attitude, because she wouldn't understand that I have no reason to wax.

* * *

Black lace underwear

Black stockings

Black silk camisole

Dark green, long sleeved dress

Black high heels

Black long coat

Gloves, scarf, a handbag and I'm ready to go.

I take a cab to the building because my shoes are not the best ones for walking. I arrive at 8:15 pm, early, but ideal for me. The gallery's still empty, only two or three people besides the working staff are here.

For a minute, I'm surprised by how elegant everything looks. I thought Jasper would be the low key kind of guy, but the place looks like something I would see back at home.

The gallery is spacious and modern. Its curves and structured walls make for both convenience, as well as a nice setting for the paintings. It all culminates in a small stage at the end, where bands will play.

I've walked past this building many times before, and I had never thought that behind that rusty, metallic door, I'd find this. The place has been decorated to look the part, but I always imagined this was an old, loft-garage type of thing.

Appearances can be deceiving.

By 8:30, more people start to show up, but everything is still mellow. So far, I haven't seen anything that has caught my eye. Not a person, not a painting. If anything, I'm more smitten by the gallery itself than by what it holds inside.

It's a bit disappointing, and I'm ready to devote myself to people watching.

Until I'm taken by surprise.

At the last curve of the hall, just before it reaches the stage area, there's a fascinating painting. It's not big, but it's attention-demanding. On the back of the canvas is a green landscape, blatantly influenced by romanticism.

In front, there are some dark and twisted designs overshadowing it. They're black, red, and purple, and look bloody and so out of place. It's doesn't even look like paint. It looks more like a Sharpie marker. I stare at the painting, confused by it. I don't understand the point in this.

Yes, it's without a doubt the eye-catcher of the night, but not for the right reasons from my point of view. I've seen the attempts of people trying to clash and mesh different styles, different genres into one painting. I've seen some that worked and some that didn't, but most of them had one thing in common. They looked like they were trying to coexist in the painting. The intent of the author always came off as if they were trying to get those two contrasting things closer.

This painting is all over the place. It doesn't look like the two styles want to belong. I don't understand what the approach is here, but I'm intrigued. I can't stop looking at it, and so I don't. I spend several minutes just staring at it, standing in front of that last painting, wanting to make sense of it, wanting to figure it out.

I notice the hum of people arriving, the air getting stiffer by the number of warm bodies entering the space, but I don't move from my spot.

Looking at the painting, I think of the books I've read and the discussions I've engaged in while mingling with elite society. Even more, I think back to my college years, where my whole world was opened to a lot more than what I thought I knew.

I frown.

"Is something wrong?" someone says behind me. I turn around, surprised.

"No," I answer, not giving him a second glance, and returning my eyes to the painting.

The stranger doesn't leave, and it starts to get annoying. He's too close, and it feels too warm in here.

"Bella!" Alice's voice takes my attention away from the painting again. She's walking towards me with Jasper in tow. I had even forgotten I was supposed to look for her. "Oh, I see you've met Edward," she says when she reaches me. The stranger—Edward—mutters something under his breath that I can't make out.

Now that I know he's Jasper's business partner, I pay attention to him.

"Edward Cullen," he says, extending his hand to meet mine.

"Isabella Swan," I say, shaking his hand. His eyes lock on mine, and I feel uncomfortable.

Uneasy.

They're too green.

I let go of his hand, and proceed to engage in polite conversation with Alice and Jasper. He doesn't join in.

After a few minutes, Alice and Jasper leave, and I return to my examination of the painting. Edward stays close behind until he steps forward next to me. I'm hit by the scent of his cologne—or something. He smells good, and I don't know why I notice.

"Now that we've been acquainted," he says, "I can ask you what's bothering you about my painting." He turns to look at me, his chaotic hair falling on his forehead. I'm surprised by his bluntness for a second, but I soon regain my composure.

I shake my head. "Nothing's bothering me." I take a peek at the initials at the corner of the painting. _E.C. _I don't know how I've spent twenty minutes going over it without imagining it could belong to the half-owner of the gallery.

"Judging by the amount of time you've been frowning at it, I'd disagree," he says, tilting his head to the side. I don't like the way he's accessing me. I'm used to being the one doing that.

"I'm just trying to figure it out, taking my time," I say, giving him a side-eye glance. I'm ready for this conversation to be over, but some irrational part of me won't let me be the one to walk away. I feel somewhat possessive over this spot.

"If you didn't get it at first glance, then you won't," he says, shrugging. I feel my temper rising. I'm already annoyed enough by having to engage in conversation with him, and now he wants to give me attitude.

"It seems our views on art appreciation differ," I say, looking him up and down. It's a gesture I've lived, experienced and practiced all my life. He has no idea.

My stare-down isn't as powerful as I would've liked, because he's taller than me. Much taller, I notice. I also notice how he's dressed. Dark jeans and a long sleeved blue shirt. How unoriginal. And unprofessional.

"Obviously," he says in a low voice, returning my look. Except, his leaves a strange, burning feeling on my body. The smirk on his lips is both predatory and condescending. I'm unnerved by it.

Someone yells his name from across the room, and he makes a gesture with his hand to show he'll be right there. Then he turns to me and smiles. As if we were just having the most pleasant conversation.

"It was nice meeting you, Bella," he says.

"Only my friends call me that," I quip, surprising myself by how snotty I sound.

"My bad," he concedes, walking backwards with his hand up. "It was nice meeting you Isabella Swan."

I leave the gallery without buying anything.

* * *

I spend my weekend according to plan. I pick up my laundry from the dry cleaners and do my grocery shopping. I also plan my following week, do an extra routine of exercise and make my weekly call to Mom.

Everything's as it should be, until I get a call from Garrett.

"Iz?" He says on the phone. I make a sound that lets him know I'm listening, too shocked to say much else. "I thought I'd give you a call. I'm in town for a few days."

"Oh."

"Yeah, I just got here. Do you…" he trails off. I wait in silence for him to finish, still too surprised by his call.

"Can we meet?" he finally asks.

"I'm busy," I say right away. It's an automatic response. He chuckles.

"Not right now. I mean, during the week."

"I have to check my schedule," I lie. I'm free every, single night. The art gallery opening was the first and only social outing I've had this year.

"Yeah, you do that," he says, chuckling once more. I take a second to remember his smile and how pleasant it is. We say goodbye and I spend the rest of the evening weighing the pros and cons of seeing him again.

I know he doesn't want a serious relationship, so that's a plus because I don't either.

He's devoted to this job. It's the reason he travels so much, which means he understands me and my crazy, work ethics. That's another pro.

I think back to the few and distant encounters we've had, and it doesn't even bring a smile to my face. My heart doesn't race at the memory of his touch. His eyes, brown and boring like mine, don't make me feel like jumping off a cliff with him.

But then again, I've never had that. I've never felt that way.

A flash of green startles me behind my eyelids and I drop my pen. I shake my head out of thoughts that don't even make sense, and decide I won't meet with him.

It's not worth the trouble.

* * *

On Monday, everything's back to normal. I feel confident about my decision and my excuse to avoid Garrett. I put on a new, heavy suit I recently bought and a long coat. I feel warm and ready to face the cold and the avalanche of New Yorkers on the street.

In a weird and uncharacteristic way, the subway is almost deserted when I enter. I spot Edward Cullen right away. He's wearing almost nothing: just jeans and a black t-shirt. No coat, no scarf, no jacket. Is he insane?

I snap my eyes from his bare forearms to his face. He's staring at me with a blank but concentrated stare. His face is serious and composed. He doesn't address me, so I don't speak either.

When I arrive to the office and take off my coat, I notice I'm sweating.

* * *

And so it goes for an entire week. I see him on the subway every morning, yet neither of us says a word to the other.

He stares.

He stares a lot, and each time I get to work, I'm sticky with perspiration.

I spend the weekend thinking about it—about him. I wonder why he looks at me the way he does, as if he's looking through me and at me, at the same time.

Why doesn't he wear warmer clothes?

Why hasn't he talked to me?

Why haven't _I _confronted _him_?

Why do I even care?

Saturday and Sunday are so open that I'm left with too much time to think about it all. I'm even tempted to talk to Alice about it, but crush the idea before it gets anywhere.

In the end, I spend time arranging my closet to create a system that allows me to find my clothes in a more efficient way.

* * *

Black lace underwear

Black stockings

Black silk camisole

Dark blue pencil skirt

White, long sleeved shirt

Black high-heeled boots

Black, long coat

And, at the last minute, a black scarf. I feel as though I could use one today, even though the weather's not so cold.

The subway is packed, and I feel better at the normalcy of it. I don't understand why it was so empty last week.

The heat from all the people being together in a closed space is one I recognize. Today, I welcome it.

Until I see him.

He's sitting.

How he managed that, I don't know. He's looking down, resting his arms on his knees. Today he has a black shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. In a sharp move, he turns his head and catches me looking.

All of a sudden, I'm suffocating.

These people are pressing too close to me, and I need _air. _

_God, I need to breathe. _

And when he stands and makes his way to me, across the sea of people between us, I feel downright paranoid.

_What is wrong with me?_

"You wear too much clothing," he says as a way of greeting. I narrow my eyes at him, wanting to call him out on his lack of manners, but I refrain.

"Fashion is a form of art," I reply, rolling my eyes, trying to appear cool and collected while I'm anything but.

"That's true, but," he trails off, shaking his head and turning to observe the people around us. I take those few seconds to study his profile: chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and crooked nose. All that, with his bronze hair, green eyes and tall frame, make for a good-looking guy.

There's something so appealing about him. If I wasn't so annoyed by him, I might feel tempted to figure him out. But he screams danger, and I'm too intrigued by him as it is.

I snap myself out of those thoughts.

"But?" I inquire. He turns to look at me, almost knocking me over with the force of his stare. He's once again, too close. I try to step back, but the crammed train won't allow me much space. I feel like his prey.

After a beat of silence, he sighs and answers.

"Skin paints a much more beautiful picture." His eyes flicker to the knot of my scarf before he meets my eyes again. I say nothing and pretend to dismiss it.

Inside, I'm burning.

* * *

"Let's go out tomorrow," Alice says on Thursday morning. She sits like she has the world on her shoulders and needs help carrying it.

"Where?" I ask, before saying no.

"Jasper's gallery. He's playing tomorrow night." I look up, surprised. "It's the second one he's done. He did one last week, but you didn't seem in the mood, so I didn't tell you," she adds, and I frown.

"What do you mean I didn't seem in the mood?"

Now she looks surprised. "I'm talking about the thin line on your lips, the constant swearing… the entire week you were horrible to be around."

"Oh," I say. It's the only answer I have.

"Are you okay?" she asks, her own distress forgotten.

I nod.

"I'm sorry if I was more of a bitch than usual this week," I say with a grin on my face.

"So, tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow."

* * *

On Friday night, I'm standing in front of my neat, organized closet, trying to find what to wear to Jasper's gig. I keep thinking about Edward's comment about wearing too much clothing. I mean, what did he mean by that?

It's cold. Society approves of layers this time of the year.

I settle for jeans, boots, a sweater and a scarf. At the last minute, I leave the scarf behind.

At the show, I stay long enough to watch Jasper, but when he's done, I can't get into the following band. Alice leaves me to fend for myself, playing backstage manager for most of the night. I can see the pain in her eyes when she's hauled away from me, but I wave her off every time.

The music is too much, and I'm too alone to stay, but I also don't want to bail. I choose the second best option. I go across the street to a not-so-popular bar.

I'm left alone enough to order a martini, when someone sits on the stool beside me.

"Isabella," he says. His voice is smooth and gentle. He waves the bartender over and orders a beer.

"Edward," I say, trying to pour as much sarcasm in my voice as I can.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, looking me up and down. "Sympathizing with the enemy?"

"I wasn't feeling the Indie's vibe anymore," I answer, taking a sip of my drink.

I don't know why I'm talking to him, but I can't bring myself to stop. The bartender places his beer in front of him. He takes a long gulp.

"Oh," he says, looking around the bar's décor. "Just in the mood for good, old-fashioned 80's rock?"

I glare at him.

"It's okay. I don't judge," he says, sliding his finger up and down the bottle. I stare at the movement. It's mesmerizing.

"Are you hiding from me?" His question snaps me out of the trance I seemed to be in at the moment. He's looking at my face, as if he's trying to see into my brain.

"Why would I?" I ask, feeling out of breath. His finger is still traveling the curves of the bottle and his eyes are holding me hostage.

"You tell me," he says, a small grin taking over his face. "Or better yet, prove me wrong," he adds.

I don't know what he means.

I don't know what he wants.

"I don't owe you anything," I say instead, trying to regain some of my composure. I have no idea why I'm feeling this way, as if he's toying with me.

"No, you don't," he agrees, lifting the beer to his lips. "But you like to be right," he says, before wrapping his lips around the bottle.

"Everybody likes to be right," I say, frowning. I do love being right. I just don't know how he would come to that conclusion after a handful of words exchanged with me.

"Then prove me wrong," he banters.

_Why? _I want to ask.

"How?" I ask instead, surprising myself.

"By letting me paint you."

* * *

**A.N: This is probably the longest chapter of the entire story. The rest will be much shorter. **

**Next chapter will be up next week.**

**See you then, and thanks for reading. **


	3. Red

**SM owns.**

**Mari and Sunflower Fanfiction, thank you so much.**

**Gingerandgreen, your feedback makes my heart swell.**

**LittleGreyAche | Yellowglue thank you for the inspiration and the support.**

* * *

**Stripped Desire – Chapter 2: Red**

"_If nothing is ventured, nothing is gained."_

_Sir John Heywood. ~_

* * *

Who would've thought that four short words could mess with someone's sanity?

I can't sleep.

I can't concentrate.

I close my eyes and see his stupid fingers running up and down that damn bottle. I breathe and see green. It's pathetic.

_Let me paint you._

I've seen his portraits at the gallery.

All nudes.

I'm appalled he thought it was okay to just ask. So casual, like it's no big deal. As though with those four words he would have me naked in front of him in a second.

And yet...

My brain has been torturing me with the thought. My heart has accelerated each time I think of the possibilities.

_How would it feel?_

_What would it be like? _

I've seen him on the subway, every day, for an entire week since then. He's back to staring without talking. But he doesn't need to talk. His eyes are eloquent. Inside my bundle of clothes, I feel unsafe and unsure. As if he's already seen me naked.

"Let me paint you," he says two weeks after that conversation. It's also his way of greeting after two weeks of watching me while I was pretending to ignore him.

"No," I say stepping farther away from him. He searches my eyes, a frown on his face, his teeth biting his bottom lip. He doesn't say anything else until a week later when the conversation goes pretty much in the same way.

* * *

I'm losing my mind, and Edward Cullen is to blame. He's messing with my head, all that staring, all that silence, and that aura of mystery that surrounds him.

_All that green._

I've thought of nothing else for days that drag on and on and on. It's doesn't matter how much work I cram into a day, there's always space left to think about his proposal–about him.

And the nights…

The nights are unbidden time programmed for a sleep that doesn't come. The illusion of safety brought by darkness gives my body free rein to imagine, to yearn and ask and plead for something that I can't have.

Something that I can't understand.

I come with the whisper of his voice and the green of his eyes as he taunts and stares.

It has become a regular occurrence.

* * *

"God, it felt so… liberating," a redhead's voice reaches me as I sip a glass of wine at the gallery. She's all tough edges and showing skin with her leather clothes and pierced ears. I'm lurking around on a corner, trying to stay away from Edward. Coming to this place feels like a lamb walking into a lion's cave, but I couldn't come up with an excuse.

Both Alice and Jasper want me here, so here I am.

"That's what they all say," Edward's confident voice answers. There's a hint of teasing in his tone, as if he's talking to someone he trusts. For some reason, I'm put off by it. I'm used to the commanding and condescending tone he uses with me, and to the staring from who has become my personal spy.

They laugh and talk for most of the night, touching each other constantly.

I ignore them.

Kind of.

Since Jasper's not playing tonight, Alice gets to spend some time with me. Although, not really. I'm introduced to a few people—a few men who keep me occupied while she's pretending to be busy.

She thinks she's sneaky.

But I won't reprimand her for it.

Tonight, I find myself trying. I pay attention to what they say. I laugh at their jokes if I find them funny. I make eye contact and seem interested. I play my part because God knows I've had practice at it. And I wonder how much this has to do with something else that I won't admit to myself.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Edward and the redhead. She's smiling at something he said, her face filled with adoration. And he's, well, he's watching me, arching an eyebrow at my company.

The guy, who's been talking about cars for fifteen minutes, notices my distraction and turns to look.

"Ah, the artist and the model," he says, and I look at him startled.

"The model?"

"Yes, the redhead—Victoria," he says. "She's the model for those portraits." He indicates a wall where said paintings are. "I guess it's hard to recognize her out of those frames, isn't it? Mr. Cullen has a way of making things look different on his canvas. I guess that's what one would call talent." He laughs at his lame joke.

In the meantime, I try to control the gaping of my mouth. I look around, seeing beautiful skin portrayed under soft lights. The few inches of paper allow gentle brushstrokes that are captivating. Her mane of untamed red hair, unfocused but there, makes the connection. That girl _is _the model, and yet she looks so different, so innocent and feminine.

How did I miss it before?

My world is spinning on its axis because I feel like a fool.

I feel lost and out of the loop, as if everyone knows a secret I don't.

I can't make sense of what's going on around me anymore because I've been living inside myself for far too long.

This stranger with his green eyes, his confident stride and his _everything _else came into my life, uttered those four words, stared at me in that unforgiving way, and nothing has felt the same.

I haven't felt like myself.

The innocent words spoken by the dull guy repeat themselves inside my head.

"_Mr. Cullen has a way of making things look different on his canvas." _

The already-there curiosity bursts from under the pit of my being and rises to the surface. I wonder and wonder and wonder…

_How would _I _look __imprinted on one of those canvases?_

The art gallery is still spinning as my brain tries its hardest to make sense of how I'm feeling. There, at the end of the room, the starting point where everything else revolves, is him. With his piercing eyes, he looks at me and mouths the words that have been driving me crazy all along.

_Let me paint you._

* * *

I wait on the sidewalk, having said goodbye to Alice and Jasper hours ago. Edward's still inside, but the redhead is long gone. So seems to be everyone else.

I managed to get out of giving my number to the car-talking guy with one of my favorites excuses.

_I just got out of a relationship. I'm not ready, yet. I'm sorry._

Nobody ever bothers to ask for more. Nobody needs to know that the last serious relationship I had was two years ago. Nobody needs to know that the rare attempts at another one always end the same way.

_You work too much._

_You never have time for me._

_You're a frigid, stuck up bitch. _

My personal favorite, that last one, uttered by a moron who was never able to make me come, and of course placed the blame on me.

But it had all been okay because I had come to terms with it all.

Love is an illusion, a pretty picture that doesn't exist. It's all I've ever seen in my life.

Convenience is real, and plans are safe. When the time comes, I will find the most convenient outcome for me, and I will create a plan to make it work, to make it last. Just like my grandparents. Just like my parents.

But the time hasn't come and so I'm still left open to possibilities. God knows how much I think about those.

"Isabella," he says, closing and locking the door behind him. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to get some comfort out of my grey coat.

"Edward," I whisper, trembling as the wind blows, cold and hard.

"Did you wait for me?" he asks, putting on a heavy jacket. It's the first winter-appropriate piece of clothing I've ever seen on him. I nod, hiding my eyes from his, unable to lie.

"Well, then?" he presses, walking closer to where I stand. I stay quiet, not sure of what I'm doing, staring at his face. He looks amused, but eager, waiting for me to say what I have to say.

He takes another step toward me, and I gasp, feeling caged and hunted once more. We do nothing for a few seconds until he reaches up to move away a lock of hair out of my face.

The trail of heat his touch leaves on my skin is enough to both snap me out of my haze and pull me deeper into this hole.

"Are you going to let me paint you?" he asks when he sees whatever reaction I couldn't hide written on my face.

My heart races at his proximity, at the ghost of his touch, at the _possibilities _as my lips answer him.

The certainty of my voice surprises us both.

"Yes."

* * *

**A.N: I'm so happy you're all liking it. Thank you for reading.**

**I hope you keep enjoying it.**

**See you next week.**


	4. Oil

**SM owns.**

**Sunflower Fanfiction, thank you so much.**

**Mari, you rock! Thank you.**

**LovelyBrutal is a star and her comments inflate my ego and make me think at the same time.**

**As usual, thank you to LittleGreyAche | Yellowglue for the inspiration.**

* * *

**Stripped Desire – Chapter 3: Oil **

"_Because everything we say and do is the length and shadow of our own souls, our influence is determined by the quality of our being."_

_Dale Turner.~_

* * *

The conversation about the technicalities of him painting me was quick and business-like. We agreed to meet in my office a couple of days later to set the time, place, and date. I just had to show up. I let him decide, much to his astonishment, because I knew that if those things were left to me, I'd find a way to back out.

And then he'd be right.

_What is it that he would be right about?_

I'm still trying to figure out what I have to prove. Or why I care in the first place.

"And so, Jasper made me this amazing iTunes playlist with songs that remind him of me. It was so sweet, as if we were high school sweethearts. And you wouldn't expect that, looking at him, but he's the most tender and attentive boyfriend. I love him so much."

Alice rambles away about her weekend with Jasper and brings me out of my own confused thoughts. I smile at her to let her know I heard what she said, catching the twinkle in her eyes.

She looks so happy and in love.

My heart aches with something I can't name.

Before I know it, my curiosity gets the best of me.

"Alice, what's it like? Loving Jasper… Jasper loving you, what's it like?" I ask, playing with the sleeves of my blouse.

I regret asking as soon as she fixes her eyes on me.

She takes a second, looking me over, searching for something in my face before taking a deep breath.

"It's like…" she starts, and stops for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "It's like knowing I'm living, like being sure my life is better with him. That _I'm _better." She sighs. "Being in love with Jasper makes me watch the entire world under a different light. I can't explain it. He makes my heart race and my skin tingle. He knows me. He gets me. It's amazing." She finishes with a big smile and a bit of pink on her cheeks.

_He knows her._

_He gets her._

Who could get me when I don't even know myself?

I smile and nod, pretending I understand her.

If she notices, she doesn't mention it.

* * *

The weeks leading to my meeting with Edward seem to go on forever. There's nothing momentous going on at the office, so I'm left with a lot of free time.

Free time spent questioning why the hell I accepted the proposal to pose naked for Edward Cullen.

Edward Cullen, a stranger.

Edward Cullen, the artist and Jasper's business partner. The guy with the green eyes, strong cheekbones, and long fingers.

The guy that's opening the door of my office right at this moment.

"Isabella," he greets. His tone is a mocking formality meant to get on my nerves.

It does.

"Edward," I say, flustered and annoyed.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you are avoiding me," he says, sitting down in front of me. He's wearing dark jeans and a white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"How so?" I ask, playing the innocent. He shakes his head, annoyed by noncommittal answer.

"I haven't seen you in awhile. Not on the train, or at the gallery."

"I've been busy," I lie, scribbling nonsense on my agenda while holding it close to my chest. There's no need to tell him I've been leaving my house at 7:15 to catch an earlier train.

He narrows his eyes at me.

"I don't believe you," he says, fingering his hair with his left hand. I catch some dark ink on the inside of his wrist before he lowers his hand out of my sight.

"I don't care," I tell him, shrugging. He doesn't say anything for a long time. I type all the nonsense I wrote on the agenda on the computer just to look busy. My skin is prickling, itching with the knowledge that he's sitting there, watching me.

I wonder if he came here just to make up for the minutes he missed these past few days of staring at me on the train. I'm irrationally exasperated by his silence even though it's all I know from him.

"What are you doing here?" I ask when I'm done typing.

"I came to see if you were still beautiful enough to go on my canvas," he answers easily, looking me up and down with a smirk on his lips. "You are," he adds.

"You're so full of yourself," I say, standing up and walking to the door. He chuckles and stands up in front of me, close enough to touch, making me back up a few steps. My back hits the frame.

"You're one to talk," he says, looking down on me with his hands in his pockets.

His face is so close, his green is so close. He eyes my lips and my chest while I try to get my breathing under control. I'm paralyzed in a way I've never felt before.

"You want to know what I think?" he asks. I don't answer. "I think you're just afraid of a little change. You don't like what you can't control."

"You don't know me," I say, debating whether I should move or not. One step forward might end up with me colliding against him.

_He's so close. _

"I know more about you than you know about me, and you hate it." His face is serious as he looks at me. He knows he's right.

"You know nothing." This time I can't help it and move closer. But then, he looks at my mouth and I step back again.

He smiles.

"See you on Friday, Isabella," he says before walking out with confident strides.

I'm left with a sheen of sweat under a long sleeved dress.

* * *

Despite our confrontation the day before, I stand in front of my closet on Thursday night ready to go along with the plan. I'm not getting out of this. I have to pick my outfit to go into the office. I'm also debating whether I should go to his place right out of work, or if I should take the time to come home.

I decide for the first option.

It doesn't make sense to go through the hassle. Besides, if I take the time to come home, I'll be late, and he mentioned something about the sun and the lighting.

To be honest, I didn't pay a lot of attention to the details. I didn't want to, for fear of changing my mind.

I'm still scared I will.

Focusing back on my closet, I pick out my outfit for the next day, aware that I'll see him tomorrow.

I discard several blouses just on the thought of the type of comment he could make about them.

Somehow, his presence is almost palpable in my room, like a ghost. The knowledge that he's haunting my hands makes me shake. I know it's crazy to let someone I've just met influence my decisions this way. Which is why I pick the first one.

Dark purple lace underwear.

Black stockings.

Dark blue blouse.

Black pencil skirt.

Black high heeled boots.

Black, long coat.

I arrange all the items on the bed, checking them for stains. I know I won't find any, but is part of my nightly routine.

I study them for a moment, second-guessing everything about each item.

And then I remember it doesn't actually matter.

It's all coming off tomorrow.

* * *

**A.N: Thank you so much for reading and adding to alerts and all that. Really, thank you!**

**See you next week. (One of my favorite chapters is coming) **


	5. Canvas

**SM owns.**

**Thanks to: Sunflower Fanfiction, Mari, and LovelyBrutal for their help with everything.**

**To: LittleGreyAche | Yellowglue for the inspiration.**

**And to everyone reading. Thank you so much.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

**Stripped Desire – Chapter 4: Canvas**

"_Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon."_

_Emily Dickinson. ~_

* * *

As I walk the streets of Bay Ridge, towards Edward's apartment, I wonder if I've lost my mind.

I've asked myself again and again why I'm doing this. Why didn't I call this off the minute he left my office that day?

Why did I say yes in the first place?

Maybe it was because of the challenge in his eyes whenever he talks to me. Maybe I just want to do him better, to beat him at his own game. The thing is, I don't know the rules to what we're playing, and I don't know the price.

_Or perhaps I do. _

Being attracted to and intrigued about Edward Cullen, and everything he has to offer, feels like second nature to me. It's as if I've had all this curiosity and hunger inside me that I've filled with books, music and work all my life.

While I was in college, I had to keep a strong grip on myself, because I knew I could get distracted from my goal. I needed my master's degree to work in the family business. Anything keeping me from it was a distraction. But, deep down, I wanted to be distracted. I knew that given the right temptation, I would cave in and all my careful planning would come apart.

The years of being a slave to my homework would've been for nothing. My training on how to be a Swan would've been in vain. Not getting my degree, with honors, could've meant the exile from my family.

_I caused my own downfall anyway. _

And now I have to face this rebel painter with enthralling green eyes and chaotic bronzed hair.

"Hello," he says, opening the door before I knock. His tone is cocky, as if I've been coming to his place all my life. As if he was sure I would show up. He's wearing dark jeans and a white shirt. My eyes go immediately to the colorful skin peeking out of his right sleeve.

"Hi," I say, forcing myself to look back to his face. His smirk tells me he noticed my wandering eyes. I tug my heavy coat closer.

"Come in," he says, his voice lower than usual.

I follow him inside, studying everything with my eyes. The first thing I notice is an enormous mural facing the door. It looks like a map, with a galaxy painted underneath. Maybe it's meant to represent the entire world.

The apartment is big and small at the same time, if that's possible. He has a lot of things in a small place, but it doesn't look crowded. He has two big bookshelves filled with books, and several paintings hanging on the wall. Yet it feels like there's a lot of empty space. Maybe because of the clear windows and spacious living room.

I spot some used canvases aligned against a wall, but I can see that they're not all finished. He also has a few wooden tables covered in papers and art instruments. This was expected. Artists are supposed to be messy, although I wouldn't call Edward messy, per se. His chaos seems organized.

I don't think he fits under any ordinary stereotype.

There are also a lot of foreign objects acting as decoration. Some things look like they belong in history museum, while others look as if they were bought at the flea market. I find myself wanting to know the story behind each object. Which ones were bought? Which ones were gifts?

Most of all, I'm overwhelmed by this place that looks so perfect for him. By how much everything suits what little I know of him, and all of what I imagine he is.

"You want something to drink?" he asks, walking toward the kitchen that hides behind the giant mural. I shake my head, but he's not looking, so I voice my answer.

"No, thanks."

"Okay, then," he says, walking back to me with a bottle of water. He motions me to sit, with his hand at the small of my back. I'm aware of his touch and the warmth he leaves behind after he drops his hand. We sit on chairs around a small, round dining table, close to a window.

"First things first," he starts, looking at me with zero amusement on his face. "You've agreed to pose for me, which means this is work. You can't bail on me. The result of this is probably going to end up on someone's wall, and you need to assure me that's okay with you. We can sign on it. I've had girls who have done it, so it wouldn't be unusual. Remember, you're doing this willingly." I nod while he takes a sip of his water, looking at me. Burning me with his eyes.

He licks his bottom lip before talking to me again. When he speaks, his voice is back to business. It doesn't reflect what his face looked like just a few seconds ago.

"Second, the lighting is paramount, so we'll need to work on this at exactly the same hour, and the exact same position. Meetings will be once a week, per your request, for, however long it takes to finish. I'm estimating three to four days." He arches his eyebrow in question, and I nod again, gesturing for him to proceed. He takes another sip, and I roll my eyes at him. He's doing it on purpose.

I think he knows how I feel when he does it. I shift in my chair, trying to appear impatient for him to get this over with. As if I just want to skip this part and get naked already.

In reality, I'm utterly terrified.

"Third," he picks off where he left off. "I've picked out a pose that I think will work best for what I have in mind, while keeping your modesty intact. This is purely artistic." He pauses, letting those words sink in. "We could work on more than that later… if you want," he says, with barely-concealed mischief in his voice.

That tingling feeling, that heat that seems to take over my body when he's around, ignites. I imagine myself looking like a giant flame, lighting the place on fire.

"Last but not least… thank you for saying yes, Isabella. I'll try my best so that you don't regret it," he says in a sincere tone before I'm recovered from the effect his words have on me.

I give him a small nod, letting him know I heard him, but don't offer anything. I don't think I can speak.

He stands, muttering something I don't understand. I stand too, acting on instinct. He walks toward the table with the art supplies. I follow, shifting inside my clothes.

I still have my coat on.

"This is a rough sketch of what I have in mind," he says, handing me a sheet.

On the paper is a pencil drawn woman, lying on a heap of blankets. The drawing is messy and looks done in a rush, but I still can see the talent in it. The woman, faceless and hairless, has her left arm covering both of her breasts. Her right arm is bent, resting on the hand close to the outside of her breast.

She has her face turned to the left. Lower, her legs are almost propped up, but intertwined, resting on the blankets. Her hips are covered with a sheet. I peruse the sketch over and over again.

"You have lovely hair, but I was thinking you should wear it up," Edward says, searching my eyes over his drawing. I meet his stare not sure of what my eyes are saying. He gives me a small smile and squeezes my fingers.

I take a deep breath and give him a small nod.

He nods back and rambles something about the type of paint he'll use. I can't focus on his words. He also shows me where I'll be, where he'll sit, and the lamps he'll use to help with the lighting. Nothing of it is important to me. I'm only focusing on the fact that I have to get naked for him. That, and the colorful ink that peeks out of his t-shirt every time he gestures with his right arm.

"Are you listening to me?" he asks, concerned.

"Yeah, sorry," I answer.

"I'm surprised by your silence," he admits, furrowing his brows.

"Did you forget I was here?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Trust me, that's next to impossible."

"How so?"

He gives me a long, serious look before answering.

"I can almost feel your skin humming, Isabella. It's fucking maddening."

I'm lost for words, yet again.

He chuckles once more and resumes his talk about technicalities. But something he says catches my attention.

"What?" I ask when I meet his expectant look.

"I said, you can change in that room," he answers, exasperated. "Or you could strip here, that's okay too," he adds.

I shake my head and make my way to the room. He yells something about a robe before I reach the room and close the door behind me.

I'm hyperventilating.

My heart is racing as I unbutton my coat, desperate to get out of it.

I try taking slow, calming breaths until my head clears. I look around and realize I'm in a small bathroom. I splash water on my face and start counting. It used to work when I was a kid.

After I'm on 43, I realize it still works. My breathing is back to normal, even though I still can feel my heart in my mouth.

My skin is still tingling, and I think about what Edward said—about the humming. I think I know what he meant. I feel a mixture of paralyzing fear and desperate anticipation. This has been the most intense feeling I've felt in a while.

Focusing on my eyes in the mirror above the sink, it hits me. This is why I said yes. This is why I'm doing this. The sensation running through my veins is what I've been craving without knowing.

Taking a deep breath, I undo the buttons of my dark blue blouse.

Then I lose my skirt.

Left in only my black, high-heeled boots, my stockings and my underwear, I take inventory of my body.

Not a Victoria's Secret model, or a porn star, but just a regular girl. A girl with healthy eating habits and good genes, soft curves and small bones.

Spotting the white robe Edward mentioned earlier, I get out of my remaining clothes.

The material is see-through, soft and cold on my heated body. My heart is still racing, and my hands are trembling as I fix my hair into a low bun.

I count to 79 before I'm able to step outside the room.

I walk with caution back to the living room. Edward's facing the mural, his back to me, arranging a lamp, then bending over to adjusts the blankets on the floor.

I don't say anything as I walk. I feel some sick satisfaction staring at him. Like payback or revenge. Only I don't seem to affect him as much as he does me.

"We'll take breaks, but if you need something you can tell me, and we'll stop," he says, startling me. I didn't know he noticed I was here.

"Okay," I say, and try to get my voice not to sound as shaky as I feel. When he turns around and looks at me, I could melt.

His eyes are as intense as ever, drinking every inch of my almost naked body.

He licks his lower lip, and I burn.

He mutters, "fuck" under his breath and I ache.

I feel like smirking at his reaction, but I'm not capable of much right now. I focus on his eyes, watching them flicker down my robe-covered body.

Then, some resolve takes over him and his face is the perfect picture of collected.

"Okay, let's get started."

"Right," I say, but don't move.

"Come here," he commands and I go to him without hesitation. I frown. He shakes his head and taps his forehead. "No frowns."

By the time I reach my spot on the blankets, Edward's sitting in his place: a stool and a raised drawing desk. He's placing layers of paper of some sort. I don't even remember the name of things right now.

Millions of things are rushing through my mind, and I can't single out any thought. My mind is going a mile a minute and I find myself missing the comfort of my predictable life.

"You can sit down first, and then lose the robe," Edward says.

I lower myself to the ground and realize I'm being an idiot. Of course, it's easier this way. Where did my common sense go?

I slide the robe off my shoulders, covering my breasts with my arms. Then, I pull the robe from under my butt and it shapes as a curve on my hips, covering me.

I start fussing with the robe and the blankets, trying to get it how it looked on Edward's sketch.

"Wait. No," he says and I stop. My heart is racing at his commanding tone, and the inexplicable urge I feel to obey him. I lock my eyes with him, nervous to catch his gaze and his beautiful face.

"Leave the robe there. Use it to cover yourself," he says.

I let go of the blankets and arrange the robe back to how it was. I move it around, following Edward's soft-spoken instructions, conscious of where his eyes are looking, trying to conceal my breasts with one hand.

"There," he says at last. "That's perfect."

I lay back, close my eyes and start counting. My heart is beating fast, and my breaths are hard and loud.

I feel my body itching with the need to fidget, to cover myself up. I'm sweating.

Anxious.

Scared.

Nervous.

I'm sure I've lost my mind.

Why on earth did I agree to this?

"Easy, Isabella. Relax," his voice comes from across the room, penetrating the jungle of my thoughts.

"Breathe," he says, and I try, but the air is fighting against me. I can't breathe.

"Focus your mind on one, soothing, natural thought. Just one," he says. I start counting my inhales and exhales.

"Good."

I do feel calmer after a while, but I feel as if I'll lose it any moment.

"What did you pick?" Edward asks me after a while. I chance a look in his direction and notice he's frowning. I tell him I'm counting. His frown deepens, as if he can't understand why I would choose to count as my one soothing thought.

"Numbers are natural," I tell him.

"I doubt that," he argues, not bothering to look up at me.

"They're logical, safe, relaxing," I say, willing him to get my train of thought.

I don't know why I'm bothering.

"They demand too much thinking," he starts, shaking his head. "They're not instinctual. They have to be taught. Pick something else."

I want to keep arguing with him, but decide against it. I'm aware of how much satisfaction I get from these pointless conversations and I don't want to give him more power over me. I already feel like he has me in the palm of his hand and I don't like it.

I count to ten, then start searching deeper in my mind. After a few minutes, I find myself thinking about my first dance lessons. I'm watching the girls of my class dance at the presentation I wasn't good enough to be part of. I focus on their movement, their grace and delicate swirls. The gorgeous dresses, the music.

"That's it," Edward whispers, and somehow his voice fits right in with my memories. "What did you choose?" he asks.

"Ballet," I answer and brace myself for his argument about how ballet is taught, as well. My answer seems to surprise him enough to let it pass. His curiosity gets the best of him.

"Do you still dance?"

"No. I sucked at it."

But I never stopped wishing I could do it.

* * *

"We're done," he says, waking me up from my self-imposed trance. I open my eyes and see him handing me a bottle of water. His own bottle is almost empty. I get up, wrapping the blankets around me, then taking the bottle from him. As I take a sip, I notice the faint classical music playing in the background.

"Thanks," I say. I'm not sure if he knows I mean more than the water. He nods and drains the last of his bottle. Once again, I find myself unable to stop staring at his lips.

I feel flames taking over my body, as the intimacy of the moment overwhelms me. That water I drink could as well be poison. I feel it scorching the blood in my veins.

He stares back at me for a second then helps me up. Together we walk to his drawing desk, and he explains what he's done so far. I listen to none of it.

I can only feel his breath on the back of my neck. It's almost impossible not to shiver.

After the awkward silence that follows his explanation and my reaction to his proximity, I go back to the bathroom to change.

Stepping into every item of clothing, I feel my composure start to take back over me.

I allow myself to feel the comfort of my layers.

I ease back to the person I am, trying to ignore the spark behind my eyes that I hadn't seen before.

As I walk out of the room, I also ignore the feeling between my legs.

There's much more fire starting inside me than I thought possible.

I'm terrified of getting burned.

* * *

_**Thank you for reading. **_

_**See you next week! **_


	6. Shadow

**SM owns.**

**Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari are awesome. Thank you.**

* * *

**Stripped Desire – Chapter 5: Shadow**

"_The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; not in silence, but restraint."_

_Marianne Moore.~_

* * *

On the train back to my place, my mind is in as much of a mess as it was in Edward's house.

He insisted on walking me home, but I refused. I don't think I was coherent enough to be with him.

I needed space.

We compromised that he'd walk me back to the station. It was the longest, most sexually charged walk of my life. We were both too aware of the fact that I had laid naked for him just minutes before.

He didn't make a sound the entire time. He walked with his hands in his pockets. Still, I noticed the tightness around his eyes. He looked as though he was holding something back.

I didn't ask.

Once in my place, I take a shower and prepare my dinner before sitting at my desk for a conversation with my mother.

She won't be able to call on Sunday afternoon, so we moved our phone call to Friday evening.

"Michael has been asking about you," she says as soon as we finish our greetings.

"Has he?" I ask, but I don't want an answer.

"It sounds as if he misses you," she continues.

"I'm sure he does."

There's a halt in our conversation. I'm sure she didn't expect the bitter tone of my voice.

I eye the plate on the corner of the table, aware that I won't touch my food until we're done talking. If she hears me chewing while on the phone with her, I'll never hear the end of it.

"Why are you so insensitive, Isabella?" she starts. My stomach rumbles. I close my eyes and tighten my grip on the phone. "Everything is second priority to you. It's all about work. Work is not a husband, you know? Work is not family."

I don't tell her I'm a product of what I know. Years of dinner table conversations about the importance of power, money, and respect.

Countless hours of training on how to be discreet and impassive, learning how to hide my feelings from the outside world, brushing questionable family secrets under the carpet.

Thousands of denied hugs from everyone around me.

I am what you taught me mother, I want to say. I left to escape the impending hardening of my soul. I'm still not sure if I left in time.

I say none of that. There's too much passion behind those words.

She'd disapprove.

We hang up after the tight silence that follows.

I sit in the dark, staring at the food I no longer feel like eating. After a moment, I get up and take the plate to the kitchen. I don't bother figuring out what to do with it.

It's still early, but I settle in my bed, ready to end this day.

I find the sketch Edward gave me on my bedside table, crumpled, but staring at me. Next to it, my phone beeps with a text.

I get under the covers before I check it.

It's Edward.

_Isabella, thank you for today, _it says, and even though I want to, I don't reply.

* * *

My alarm doesn't ring.

I wait for it as I watch the sun cast my room in a soft light. Then I remember it's Saturday.

I have no plans for today.

My bed is warm and cozy, and I wish I had it in me to stay here. The constant need to be doing something productive prevents me from doing so. It's hard to get your body to do your will sometimes. Especially when it's been trained a certain way.

Years of alarm clocks dictating an obligation force me to sit up and get out of the comfort of my bed.

My cell phone beeps with incoming messages. Several of them are junk mail. I do have a text message from Alice. She wants to have lunch with me tomorrow at her place.

I send her a quick reply to confirm the time and offer to bring wine, even though now I have to go out to buy it.

I go about my quiet day, ignoring the sheet of paper with a charcoal drawing that sits next to my bed.

The reminder of the way he looked at me yesterday is enough to drive me crazy.

Everything about our time together feels like as it has happened to someone else.

Everything about him makes me curious.

For a second, I entertain mentioning Edward to my mother. I could've told her I let a man paint a nude portrait of me. I could've explained to her how his green eyes make my heart race and my palms sweat.

I could've told her that I had never felt more scared or alive as I did yesterday when I took off my robe.

She would probably lock me up in rehab or something.

I chuckle, shaking my head at my absurd thoughts, swallowing the bitter taste of reality.

* * *

Edward's the one who opens the door for me when I get to Alice's place the next day.

Of course he's here, smiling at me like we're old friends. His feet are clad in socks because he has already made himself at home.

"I texted you," he says as soon as I walk past him. He stops me to take the wine bottle out of my hands.

"I got it," I say, taking my coat off.

"You didn't reply." He looks down at the wine bottle, nodding as if in approval. Then he meets my eyes, waiting for my excuse.

I don't have one.

"What was there to say?" I say instead.

He opens his mouth at the same time Alice pushes him to the side.

"You're here!" Alice says, wrapping her arms around me and directing me toward the kitchen, leaving Edward behind.

Her face is bright. She's wearing a dirty pink apron and talking quickly about all the disasters she has avoided in the kitchen during the day.

Jasper shouts his greeting from the living room, and makes a comment to Edward about something that happened on the TV.

"Can I help?" I ask Alice, looking around the mess of dirty pots and pans on the counter.

Alice takes a moment to look me from head to toe before shaking her head.

"What?" I say, confused.

"You're wearing nice clothes," she says. "I don't want you to get them dirty."

I look down to my grey skirt and my deep green blouse.

"Go sit with Edward, and tell Jasper to get in here," Alice says, pushing me toward the living room without giving me a chance to argue.

"Alice requests you in the kitchen, sir," I say to Jasper with a small smile. He chuckles and stands up, pausing to give me a kiss on the cheek.

I sit next to Edward on the couch, wanting to be casual about his presence in an environment that he doesn't own.

This is my territory.

My lunches and dinners with Alice and Jasper are not a rare occurrence in my life.

Just because I don't take my shoes off and prop my feet on the living room table, doesn't mean I'm the outcast here.

"How about 'you're welcome' or 'I should be thanking you'? Something along those lines," he says, carrying on our conversation as though it wasn't interrupted.

I laugh. "You've very conceited." It's something I've noticed before.

"I wish you were," he says. The tone of his voice is lower than I expected—sad almost. I turn my body to face him instead of the television.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you act the part of a confident woman, but I don't think you are," he says after a tense moment of silence, looking down at the couch cushion between us.

The urge to deny his assessment threatens to make me look like a teenage girl arguing with a friend, so I force myself to take my time to mull over his words, even though I already know what I'm going to say.

"You don't know me."

He nods and smiles, as if pleased by my answer.

Then he looks up at me with a challenging look in his eyes.

"So you keep saying."

* * *

Lunch is pleasurable enough. It's hard to remember this is the same man who has a way of getting under my skin. Or that he has seen me in a way no one else has. Not even past lovers.

Regardless, the conversation is never awkward or uncomfortable even with the way Edward looks at me from time to time. Alice and I have known each other for a long time, and so have Jasper and Edward, which makes it easy for the conversations to flow.

The food is lovely, and we all praise Alice for her hard work.

When both Edward and I offer to help with the dishes, Alice practically forces us out, commenting on how much better she'll feel if Edward and I leave together.

I don't call her on her bullshit excuse.

She knows I've been taking care of myself for a long time.

"Is Alice trying to set you up with me?" Edward asks me as soon as we're out of the house. He messes with the zipper of his leather jacket and starts walking.

"Alice is always trying to set me up with someone," I say, shaking my head and tightening the bow of my coat around my waist. "She's usually not subtle about it."

Edward laughs.

"Is she under the misconception that you can't get your own dates? Has she seen you?" he asks, gesturing with his hand toward my face, then the rest of my body.

His compliment warms my skin.

"It's not that simple," I say in a low voice, praying he doesn't hear me.

"Ah." He stops walking and turns to look at me. "The curse of the successful woman. Men are intimidated by you."

I shrug in response, not wanting to go down this disaster of a conversation waiting to happen.

"Don't worry, Isabella, the right one will see you in a different light—the one that matters."

* * *

_**See you next week, hopefully not as late.**_


	7. Ink

**SM owns.**

**As always, Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari are awesome people who I'm so thankful for.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

**Stripped Desire – Chapter 6: Ink**

"_It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment."_

_F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby.~_

* * *

When I board the train the next day, Edward isn't there. It throws me off balance since today I was on time. Today, I was expecting to see him.

I'm more disappointed than I would ever admit.

I get to the office ready to put all Edward Cullen related thoughts aside.

Alice has other plans.

"So, how was it?" she asks, barging into my office with a grin before my computer has had a chance to log in.

I give her a look. "How was what?"

"I sent Edward home with you yesterday. Please don't tell me you have nothing to say," she says.

I roll my eyes.

"I have nothing to say, except that subtlety is not a virtue you possess."

She snorts.

"If you want to talk about subtlety, why don't you explain to me the way you looked at each other during lunch? What was that all about?" She arches an eyebrow.

I roll my eyes, but my heart rate quickens. I thought I was the only one who noticed how he looks at me.

"Why do you want to set me up with him? We have nothing in common."

"That's not true," she says. "And even if it were, maybe that's the point. Maybe you need to go out of your comfort zone to find the right guy for you."

I wait a minute before speaking. When I do, my voice sounds weaker than I intended.

"Who says I'm looking? Who says I need anyone?"

She looks at me for a second and then shakes her head in disapproval.

"We're all looking, Bella." She stands up. "And you might not need anyone, but I have a feeling you want something more out of life than this." She looks around my office before walking out.

I ignore the pity in her eyes.

* * *

On the second session, Edward Cullen opens the door shirtless. Water is dripping from his hair and onto his muscled chest. He motions me in and closes the door behind us, toweling the back of his head. A small drop of water splashes my right wrist.

I can almost hear it sizzle.

The colorful ink on his right arm is on full display: a sleeping woman starts on his pectoral and her orange dress flows to his shoulder. The trail of her dress is what has been teasing me all along, peeking out of his t-shirts.

Focusing on the tattoo, I realize I know the image. It's Flaming June by Frederic Leighton. It causes a sudden urge to know his reason for committing that specific painting on his body.

"First painting I ever loved," he says when he sees me looking.

I don't say anything.

Lower down his body, black ink starts on his right hip and disappears under his jeans. It's more than obvious he is wearing no underwear.

I feel like a gaping fish out of water, drinking in every inch of his skin.

He puts on a black t-shirt without uttering a word. The simple action of the fabric sliding across his body is erotic.

He claims I was a bit early and that he got home a bit late, as an explanation for not being ready for me.

I pretend is no big deal.

I think we both know I'm lying.

The image of his naked flesh and his ink, are forever etched into my memory. As if I need more reasons to be flustered around him.

"Are you ready to begin?" he asks.

I nod.

By the time I'm settled on the blankets, a sweet scent covers the room while classical music plays in the background. Edward tinkers with the light while I try to lose myself in the relaxing atmosphere he has prepared. I add thoughtful to the list of adjectives that can describe him.

I can't seem to forget the fact that I have no clothes on, though. Or the fact that his jeans seem to be defying gravity.

When he crouches next to my head to move one of the blankets there, I stop breathing. His hair is still wet, and he has that indescribable sensual look of a man who just took a shower. The masculine scent of his soap makes me somewhat dizzy.

"Relax, Isabella. Please," he says, looking down on me. His voice sounds the way the room smells: sweet, soothing. He moves a lock of my hair behind my ear. His touch is as soft as a feather.

My muscles unwind slightly.

He notices.

Standing up, he claps his hands and nods to himself. Then, he walks to his stool and his desk to get to work.

"How was your week?" he asks, a while later.

"Good," I say as I move my legs a little. There's an itch on my left calf.

He stops working right away with a frown on his face. His hand doesn't start moving again until I'm still.

"And yours?" I say, closing my eyes.

"Weird," he says. I feel as if I can hear the frown on his voice. I don't bother checking.

"I had to go out of town to meet with a buyer," he adds.

I take a deep breath, enjoying the vanilla scent that wafts around. Somehow, it fits with the piano keys of the song that's playing.

"How's that weird?" I ask, feeling more at ease.

"Jasper usually handles that aspect of the business," he says. "Lower your right arm, please." After I do as he says, he starts talking again. "I did enjoy the traveling, though. I miss it."

"What do you miss?"

He doesn't answer right away. I open my eyes and find him looking down at the desk. His hand works in swift, quick movements. His hair is covering his forehead in an adorable curl. He's biting his lower lip, yet he looks as if he's smiling.

I'm about to repeat my question when he stops moving, releases his lip and looks up.

He catches me staring at him, and the expression on his faces turns sheepish.

"I miss going away," he says, rubbing the back of his neck before standing up. "I miss meeting new places and new people, losing myself in an unknown city, being inspired by a different atmosphere."

He walks toward me while he ticks off these things. When he reaches me, he gives me his hand to help me rise.

It looks as if we're done for the day.

I rush to wrap the blankets around me before taking his offer.

I want to ask him why he bothered opening a business if he's the wandering type, but I don't.

"Thank you," I say instead, letting go of his hand.

"Come see," he says and pulls me toward the desk as he did last week.

"Jesus," I say, unable to hide how impressed I am. The rough sketch I saw last week feels like a distant memory. There are so many details on the painting now. "Is all this work just from today?" I ask, touching the edge of the sheet.

"I work fast," he says, shrugging. I turn my head to look up at him, expecting to see a cocky expression on his face. That's not the case. He looks almost humbled by my reaction.

He goes on a descriptive speech about what he accomplished today with the drawing, and the things he has to work on the next two sessions. I pay attention to what he says. His passion is contagious.

"I need to fix the shadowing here," he says, tracing a finger down my on-paper leg. I feel it on my own skin. The action makes his arm brush along mine. An unconscious tremor runs through my body.

He backs away from me. "You need to get dressed."

I nod, getting off the stool and almost running toward the bathroom.

* * *

"Come to the gallery with me," he says when I walk back out with my clothes on.

I make a knot with my scarf and shake my head. "I can't."

He starts walking closer to me.

"Why not?" he asks, and takes a heavy sweater from a nearby chair. "It's Friday night. Jasper's playing. I'll buy you a drink." The smile he gives me would be enough to want to say yes. Then I see a sliver of skin as he stretches to put the sweater on and I back away from him.

No.

"I'm tired," I say. I intended to make up an excuse, but this is the truth.

I am tired.

He looks at me, the smile gone from his face, and nods.

"Another time, maybe," he says.

"Sure," I say.

Edward walks me to the station. We don't say a word. It should be uncomfortable, but it's not. The silence is more of a companion than a barrier between us.

When I get home, I have a text from him. I take my time settling in before I check it. It must be a reminder of our next meeting. I doubt it's another thank you note.

_Isabella, thank you for today. Did you think of numbers during our session? _It says. My cell phone feels heavy in my hands as I realize I didn't.

Not even once.

Looking back, the only thoughts that clouded my mind revolved around him. The discovery of his colorful skin, the way he smelled, and how his jeans rested low on his hips were enough to drive me crazy.

I don't reply to his text, even as I admit to myself that numbers were the farthest thing from my mind.

* * *

**Thank you for reading.**

_**See you next week.**_


	8. Blue

**SM owns. Thank you to Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari, as usual.**

**So... Surprise! (Yes, there will be an update next Wednesday as well.)**

* * *

**Stripped Desire – Chapter 7: Blue**

"_In human intercourse the tragedy begins, not when there is misunderstanding about words, __but when silence is not understood."_

_Henry David Thoreau.~_

* * *

"Your father is flying to New York tomorrow," she says.

I try not to let the panic of the news show in my voice. I'm not sure if I succeed.

"What? Why?"

"Why do you think? Business."

I sigh into the phone while she starts telling me what I should do to entertain him in his free time. She dismisses the typical touristic outings with a groan and a complaint about the city. I wonder if this is all part of her plan to get me to move back to Virginia.

"He tells me he's free on Tuesday night. Take him out to dinner," she says.

"I have a conference call with a client," I say right away.

I check and write down my schedule so often that I have it memorized.

"You have work that late at night?" she asks, outraged. As if this is a new thing. As if my father hasn't uttered those same words to her in the past.

"Time difference," I say, swallowing down the annoyed remark.

"Right. Well, Friday, then."

"Fine. What time?"

"5:00 o'clock."

I freeze. That's when I'm supposed to meet with Edward.

For a brief moment, I wonder if they know what I've been doing. I've been quite discreet with my meetings with him, but the panic is there nonetheless. They have their ways, after all.

"What? That's too early for dinner," I tell her before I can analyze my words. The tone of my voice is light and casual, but I know it's not about how I spoke, but about what I said.

"I don't know what kind of life you're having there," she starts, "but we still eat dinner every day at 6:00 here." She speaks in hushed, angry tones while I look at the delicate manicure I had done yesterday. "The only reason your father will have this dinner at five is because he has an early flight the next day."

I try to apologize for my inconsiderate and out of place remark, but she talks over me.

"You know he needs to go to bed at least eight hours before flying or he gets sick. Has it been so long that you don't remember how things work around here anymore? It wouldn't surprise me. You barely make time for this call once a week. You've thrown everything I taught you out the window."

And there it is, the reason she calls at all, to remind me what a horrible daughter I am.

Silence envelops us, tense and tiring.

I sigh, and run my hands through my hair, soothing myself.

"Friday at five works just fine, Mother," I say in an even voice. "Tell him I'll see him then."

She hangs up after that without saying anything else.

Five minutes later she calls and leaves a message with the address of the hotel he'll be staying in, and the list of restaurants I can take him.

I spend the rest of the day planning—practicing—how I'll cancel with Edward.

The thought intimidates me more than it should.

* * *

After much deliberation, I decide to visit Edward at the gallery during lunch hour on Monday. A phone call seemed way more intimate than meeting him face to face for some strange reason. And a text felt like cowardice.

With a package of sweet treats in my hands, under the heavy humid air, I walk with purposeful strides toward the gallery. I ordered the treats yesterday as soon as I made the decision to stop by the gallery to tell Edward of my change of plans. I just picked them up ten minutes ago.

I was taught to have some type of present when giving unpleasant news to people.

_I haven't forgotten everything, mother. _

I shake my head and walk faster.

A cold drizzle starts to fall as soon as I reach the art gallery. I walk inside just in time to avoid getting wet.

Edward is the first thing I see. He's coming down a ladder with a hammer in his hand and nails on his mouth.

His eyes widen and his steps falter when he notices me looking up at him.

"Well, this is a surprise," he says when he's back on the ground.

"Hello," I say.

"Isabella." He acknowledges me with a nod. Then his eyes flicker to the small box on my hands. "Is that for me?" he asks as if I've been bringing him food all my life. I extend it to him without speaking. He smiles. "How thoughtful."

"Yes. I'm selflessness personified," I say, looking away from him.

"Funny," he says, walking into my line of vision. He directs me toward the small stage where he sits down on the wooden stairs.

I remain standing a few feet away from him.

"So why are you here?" he asks, taking a bite out of a sweet roll.

"I won't be able to make it this Friday,"

As soon as the words leave my mouth, his entire demeanor changes, he stops eating and his body goes rigid.

He places the box next to him and stands up. His movements are slow and measured, until he's finally standing in front of me.

"Why not?" he asks. The question is simple and understandable, but the way he says it rubs me the wrong way.

I look up at him, defiant.

"I can't. Something's come up," I say. It's not what I had practiced saying. I had an entire speech about my father's inconvenient visit. But now, talking about my family at all feels like more than he needs to know.

He shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair. "Un-fucking-believable."

"I was civil enough to come here and let you know with a lot of time in advance," I say, crossing my arms.

He laughs without humor. "Right and the pastries are supposed to make me… what? Agreeable?"

"You don't _have_ to agree with anything," I say, ready to end this conversation. "I'm not asking your permission not to come. I'm telling you I'm not going to be there."

"Message received."

He stares at me, annoyed.

I refrain from stomping out of the room. Instead, I give him a condescending nod.

Then, I walk with my head held high out of the gallery.

* * *

Tuesday and Wednesday pass me by in a haze. I have a lot of work to do in the office, and a dinner with my father looming on the horizon.

On Wednesday night, I make a reservation at one of the restaurants that my mother listed. I also make an appointment at the beauty salon for Friday morning.

On Thursday night, Alice calls me to invite me to go to the gallery with her, but I decline.

The mere thought of seeing Edward after our altercation on Monday throws me off balance.

His reaction wasn't what I was expecting at all.

I understand he takes his job seriously, but I still think he was out of line with me.

He behaved in a way that wasn't acceptable. It's like he doesn't get that the fact that my agreeing to pose for him is a miracle. He could cut me some slack.

Thinking about Edward makes me restless and I need to get some sleep. I try to push him out of my mind, but it is without success.

Ever since I met him, it seems like he's the only thing I can focus on.

I take a shower and start my nightly routine, but the ringing of my cell phone interrupts me.

The ID doesn't identify the caller, but I answer anyway.

When I do, the voice from the other side is the last one I'm expecting

It makes me smile.

I don't usually have room for spontaneity in my life, but sometimes, like tonight, I welcome it.

* * *

**Thanks for reading.**

_**See you soon.**_


	9. Eraser

**SM owns.**

**Thanks to Sunflower Fanfiction & Mari for everything, as usual.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

**Stripped Desire – Chapter 8: Eraser **

"_You can clutch the past so tightly to your chest that it leaves your arms too full to embrace the present."_

_Jan Glidewell .~_

* * *

"I thought you wouldn't come," he says, looking at me with bedroom eyes.

"I wasn't," I say, losing my coat. It takes me a few minutes before I'm able to place it on the hanger.

Garrett walks across the room with confident strides. When he reaches me, he envelops me in a hug. He smells nice, almost too nice. It feels as if he swallowed his perfume bottle.

"I'm glad you did," he says in my ear.

My body relaxes a little, but I'm still tense. It has been a while.

Garrett offers me wine, but I hate the wine list in this hotel, so I decline.

We make small talk for a few minutes, standing in the balcony. When I shiver from the cold air, he rubs my arms up and down to keep me warm. It doesn't help.

He talks about his business—a law firm—while I pretend to listen to him. I wish I cared about what he has to say.

"You look good," he says after silence falls between us. He smiles a polite smile, as if we're only acquaintances. It's still better than the one Michael used to give me.

I'm in no position to complain, since this is the safest bet I have to distract myself.

I thank him for the compliment and smile at him.

When he kisses me, I let him.

When he leads me toward the bed, I follow.

His skin is warm; I'm still cold.

* * *

When I open my eyes the next day, it's still dark out. My alarm hasn't gone off yet, so I deactivate it. Garrett stirs when I get out of the bed, but he doesn't wake up.

I lock myself inside the bathroom to get ready, and avoid my reflection on the mirror. The bile rising in my throat as I think about last night is painful.

These nights never leave me feeling satisfied, only dirty.

It makes me hate myself a little.

I don't know why I came here. Especially when there are no good feelings to overrule the bad ones.

Garrett doesn't make my skin sing. He doesn't make my heart race. My body doesn't burn in his presence. I've always known this, and yet, this is the first time I stop to think about it.

It's all so disappointing.

After I'm dressed, I walk back to the room and find Garrett getting out of bed.

"I have to go," I say. My voice comes out stronger than I feel.

He rubs his eyes. "Yeah, I know."

And he doesn't care. This is why we work, after all. I don't understand why it seems to matter now.

I locate my purse while he goes into the bathroom. He leaves the door open. I can hear the toilet flushing and the water running. It sounds intimate but it's not. Our relationship is a business transaction.

Maybe it's time I let go of this client. I'm not earning all that much.

"Garrett," I say when he walks toward me with a towel on his hand.

"Yes?" He doesn't look at me.

"Please don't call me again."

I'm out the door before he has a chance to respond.

* * *

After leaving the hotel I've sworn I'll never visit again, I go home, take a shower, and get ready for my beauty salon appointment.

I call Alice to clear some things up with her even though she already knows I won't be going to work today.

Unlike Edward, she knows a dinner with my father requires a day off for me.

I spend the entire morning at the beauty salon pampering myself. I cut my hair, get my nails done, and get a massage. By the time they're done with me, I only have time to go back home to get ready for dinner.

Just how I planned it.

My mind goes back to last night's events over and over. I shouldn't have slept with Garrett. Not last night or any of the other times.

He's so not worth it.

_Who is?_

I stop the train of thought before I get an answer I'm not ready to face. The thought about right lights enters my mind a couple of times, though.

I meet my father at the agreed upon restaurant at 4:59.

He's sitting at one of the tables in the middle. That wasn't the one I reserved.

When I get to him, he stands.

"Your hair's longer," he says, extending his hand.

"Hi Dad," I say, kissing his cheek instead.

"I ordered our entrees and a bottle of wine," he says once we're sitting down. "You're paying."

"Of course."

I've learned not to get into these games with him. He's always trying to give me a reason to argue, just so that he can remind me what he has given me and what I have wasted. When the check arrives, he won't let me pay. His pride won't let him.

"How's business?" he asks after the waiter arrives with our entries.

"It's good. We've acquired several clients since the last time we talked," I say, sipping my wine, hating how delightful it tastes.

"I should hope so, otherwise you would be broke."

I laugh even though is not funny.

He spends the evening questioning every aspect of my business, from the clients we've had to the type of company that supplies our paper.

I answer everything as well as I can, not letting my emotions get the best of me. I'm one hundred percent honest, even when I know my answers might upset him. I listen to his reproaches over silly things like a good student, nodding when he offers me unsolicited advice.

By the time dinner's over, I'm sure there isn't an aspect of my career he hasn't questioned, objected to, or complained about.

My head is throbbing, and I can feel how tense I am. The three glasses of wine I drank didn't help. A fourth one would've, maybe. But he frowned when I finished the last one, so I refrained from pouring myself more.

"Did your mother plan anything else for us?" he asks after he pays the check.

I shake my head, not bothering to correct him. Pointing out that I was the one who made the reservations won't make a difference.

"You should head off to the hotel. Get some sleep. You have an early flight tomorrow," I say.

He nods, but doesn't get up.

"Did she tell you the news about Michael?" he asks, fixing his dark eyes at me. I don't answer his question. "He's gotten engaged. Now he can finally start his political career."

I narrow my eyes at him, remembering all the times my mom made it look as though Michael has been pining for me. Funny how she forgot to mention he had a serious girlfriend.

Does she get that much pleasure out of making me feel guilty about things?

I shake my head out of my thoughts and address my dad.

"Good for him."

"It's remarkable, really," he goes on, rubbing his chin. "After the stunt you pulled on him, we thought he might never get around to fulfilling his dream. We're thankful he has been so gracious about it all, otherwise our lives would be ruined. His family is friends with most of my clients."

I don't mention that his dream, as far as I knew, was never to be a politician. But I never did get to know him that well.

People are unreliable.

I stare at him, wondering if he has any idea of the words he's saying. Maybe he doesn't realize that this is his daughter he's talking to and that Michael Newton is not whose side he should be on.

Perhaps I'm being unfair.

I was the one who broke the engagement after all. Michael's only sin was not loving me enough, and I can't blame him for that, when I'm not sure I loved him at all.

It's a guilt I've carried ever since I got the guts to get out of my parent's house. Things would've gone so much easier if only I had married the guy they wanted.

"Well," I say, standing up. "If we're lucky, Mom will be the maid of honor or something. That way she can make up for the spotlight she missed when I cancelled ours. God knows this might be her only chance."

His face is impassive after my words, but the set of his jaw gives his anger away. He doesn't say anything, so I kiss his cheek goodbye and wish him a good flight.

Once outside, I get the security guy from the restaurant to get me a cab. He looks annoyed by my request, but my expression leaves no room for argument.

The backseat of the car smells terrible, and it worsens my headache. The ride back home feels as if it will never end. There are traffic jams down every street we turn. I'm too out of myself to yell at the taxi driver for picking the worse route to my neighborhood on purpose.

When we finally get there, I pay the fare without complaint and let him think I'm a silly tourist.

I walk the steps to my door looking down at my brand new black shoes, curious about how I managed to scuff them.

Once I get inside my house, after dropping the keys twice, I feel worse than I have in a long time.

Both my cell phone and my house phone ring several times, but I don't answer them.

I lay on my bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling and willing my headache to go away without any medicine.

Then, someone knocks on my door.

The interruption is so unexpected, that it takes the person on the other side three more tries before I even make an attempt to get up.

When I do get the door, the first thing I see is the well-known logo from my favorite bakery.

The second thing, are his green eyes, staring at me in a way that has become familiar.

And the third thing, are his lips moving, asking me to let him in.

* * *

**Thank you for reading.**

**See you next week. **

**xo**


	10. Pollock

**SM owns.**

**Thank you to Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari for their work.**

**Thank you to Yellowglue | LittleGreyAche for the inspiration.**

**Thank you for reading.**

* * *

**Stripped Desire – Chapter 9: Pollock**

_"Speak when you're angry, and you'll make the best speech you'll ever regret."_

_Lawrence J. Peters. ~_

* * *

"Isabella," he says, after I've let him in. I don't say anything. He narrows his eyes. "You cut your hair."

I stare at him, thrown off balance by his presence—by his words.

He's wearing dark blue jeans, black boots, and a dark grey jacket zipped all the way up. His hair is a mess.

I run my hands over the skirt of my dress and look down at my shoes.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, meeting his eyes again.

He tugs his ear several times and looks around before stepping closer to me. The brown bag he has clutched to his chest with his right hand serves as a barrier between us.

But he is still close enough to touch. My fingers itch with the desire to do so.

"I came to apologize," he says. He looks down for a second before tugging his ear again.

_Is he nervous?_

"How did you find out where I live?" I ask, walking a few steps backwards.

He follows and places the bag on a small table that now seems out of place.

"Don't get angry with Alice." He holds his hands up. "I tried calling you. I texted you… although, I'm starting to think you never reply to those."

He smiles at me. The way he looks is so distracting.

How can he make my head spin with a smile?

How can his presence alter my thoughts in such a powerful way?

Everything he does is mesmerizing to me. The thought of giving in paralyzes me with fear. Guys like Edward Cullen aren't satisfied with just a half of something. They want it all. I'm not sure if I can give away that much.

I can't do this.

"Listen, Edward," I start, shaking my head. "It's been a rough week. I'm not in the mood for company."

I leave the sentence hanging in the air between us, willing him to go. A serious, determined look replaces the smile on his face.

"I'm sorry about this week. I was a jerk. You _were _being civil." He walks further into the living room, and looks to the left at my bookshelf. "I just don't want you bailing on me."

"I won't," I say before I realize it. He looks back to me. "It was just one session. And trust me, I would've preferred to be there today, instead of where I was."

After the words are out of my mouth, it hits me how true they are. I don't know what to make of it.

I sit on the couch, exhausted, and take off my shoes.

His face softens, nodding as he walks toward me.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, sitting down. "I'm a good listener, I promise." He lowers the zipper of his jacket, exposing a red and white t-shirt.

I sigh. "Thank you, but I'd rather not."

"Okay. We don't have to. We can talk about anything else. I brought you chocolate cake," he says, smiling.

The soft expression on his face is impossible to deny, so I nod at him, too tired to come up with an argument. It's clear he's making an effort to make up for his actions.

We sit in my living room in silence, me eating the chocolate cake, while he devours a sweet roll.

I try to look everywhere but him.

I check the time on the wall clock three times in the expanse of fifteen minutes. It's 9:45 pm.

Edward finishes eating, crumples his napkin and stuffs it in the pocket of his jeans.

"Were you with someone tonight?" he asks, playing with a loose thread of fabric on his jeans.

I study his profile until he looks at me.

"Not tonight, no."

"When?" he asks, narrowing his eyes, reading between the lines.

"None of your business," I say. The words feel heavy on my mouth. A part of me wants to tell him everything in the form of confession, as a sinner looking for absolution.

I have to bite my tongue to keep my words in check.

The energy flowing between us is weird, tense. I know he knows.

"I hope it was better," he says, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"Better than what?" I ask.

"Than spending time with me," he says, looking at me in the eyes.

"It wasn't," I whisper. My heart is racing. I've said too much tonight.

He runs a hand through his hair and moves closer. "Which night?"

I look at our almost-touching legs and answer.

"Neither.

He stares at me in silence for a moment before clearing his throat. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and count to 50 before walking back out.

"So, where you've been?" he asks when I sit down with two cushions between us. He smiles when he sees my obvious attempt at creating distance.

I pick up the bakery container."What?"

"Which places have you been to? Which one's your favorite?"

"What kind of question is that?"

We stare at each other for a few seconds.

"Are you going to answer or not?"

"Well, I went to boarding school in London," I say. He nods as if he already knew that. "I've visited most of Europe: Spain, France, Italy, and Germany. I spent a summer in Argentina once, Mexico…" I trail off not wanting to name every single country I've been to.

"So you really are rich," he says.

I frown and place the half-eaten chocolate cake on the edge of the living room table.

He chuckles. "Sorry, I just thought maybe you weren't as wealthy as you behaved, but you do come from money."

"Yes."

There's no point denying my family is rich. And it's not as if I can't forget it when money has played such an integral part in my life since the day I was born.

Money.

Knowledge.

Power.

Every friendship I ever had while growing up had a purpose.

"_You need to be nice to Francis. Her parents are about to hire your dad to manage their investments in the city."_

"_Don't be rude to Jessica. She's the granddaughter of one of your dad's most important clients."_

"_Go to the movies with Richard. If his family takes their business elsewhere, it will ruin our reputation."_

I shudder back into the present, hating the whispers of the past in my ear.

"Do you hate it?" he asks.

"Money has its pros and cons, like everything else," I say, frowning. No one has ever asked me that before.

He snorts. "You say that because you've always had it."

I roll my eyes at his response. It's such a cliché thing to say. "Oh please."

"You've always had food on your table, warm beds to sleep in," he says, then shakes his head. "Fuck, I bet you had Egyptian silk. You don't know what it's like not having money to buy food or a place to sleep. You have no idea."

This is what happens when people discuss money.

There's an ugliness to it, a sour edge to their tone. Edward's face is not soft and earnest like it was just moments ago. Now he looks angry.

At me.

For being rich.

My blood boils with rage.

"Behold the starving artist," I say, waving my hand his way. "What a trite line. Martyr Edward—better than everyone Edward. Why? Because you think you've had it worse than everyone else? Newsflash: you haven't." I stand up and gather the disposable plate that holds the rest of my chocolate cake.

I walk to the kitchen, feeling my head throb with each angry step I take.

I feel him close behind me.

"So help me God," he says, "if you go on a rant about your wallet being too small for your fifties and your diamond shoes being too tight …"

"This isn't about me!" I say, turning to face him.

It never is about me. Every person who has been a part of my life has managed to project their issues on me, including my family. I've always been just a mirror for people to look at their flaws and mistakes while they lash their insecurities at me.

No one has seen me for who I am.

I've spent most of my life proving to myself that I'm capable, worthy, good enough.

Tears well up in my eyes and my hand starts to shake from the rage. I put the container on the counter, and brace myself against it.

"You need to leave," I say, taking deep breaths. I will my voice not to crack. "Now."

"Isabella, I'm sorry."

I hold up my hand without facing him.

"I've been so out of line," he says. I can hear his deep exhale of breath. "I don't know—" he stops, and then speaks again. "This isn't me."

"Just go. Please," I say, and this time my voice does break.

Silence falls around me, and for a second I think I'm alone.

I let out a small sob as the tears finally begin to run down my cheeks.

And then his arms are around me, and I'm clutching his t-shirt while I cry.

His body radiates warmth and mine absorbs it all. I want to recoil from his touch, but I drown in it instead.

Without my heels, he towers over me, making me feel fragile. I try pushing him away several times. My heart's not in it, though. My movements are slow and weak, and it only makes him hold me tighter.

He tells me he's sorry over and over, whispering the words against my hair. The action feels too intimate, yet it manages to calm me down.

Even after I'm done crying, he holds me in his arms for a few more minutes.

"I need you to go," I say, pushing him away. He lets me go to meet my eyes.

He nods. "I understand."

I walk to the door and open it while he retrieves his jacket from the living room.

When he reaches me, he stares at my face.

"I know you're more than what meets the eye," he says. "That's why I asked you to pose for me, so everyone can see. I didn't mean what I said."

I nod at him but say nothing.

With a sigh, he walks out, and I close the door behind him.

* * *

**Anyone caught the _Friends_ reference? Let me know in the review.**

**Thank you for reading.**

_**See you next week. **_

**xo.**


	11. Gray

**SM owns.**

**Thank you to Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari for their help and patience.**

**Thank you to Yellowglue | LittleGreyAche for the inspiration.**

**Thank you for reading.**

* * *

**Stripped Desire – Chapter 10: Gray**

"_Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it."_

_Mark Twain.~_

* * *

For the first time in a while, I spend the weekend lying down in my bed, only getting out of it when it's obligatory.

On Sunday, I call my mother and listen to her tear me a new one for my behavior at dinner with Dad. I don't talk back. I just let her lecture me like the bratty kid she considers me to be.

When she gets all the words out of her system, we end our phone call.

My mood is not affected at all by her call.

My conversation with Edward repeats itself over and over in my head. I torture myself, willing my heart to get over it, convincing it that it doesn't hurt.

But it does hurt.

And then, I remember the way he held me while I cried, as if he wanted to hug the pain out of me.

I remember his apology.

He said the exact thing that could make me forgive him before he left.

_I know you're more than what meets the eye._

I want to believe him even though I don't think I should.

In the end, I'm aware his words are meaningless. I'm the one giving them so much power.

It doesn't help me to feel better.

It's undeniable that I care.

* * *

When I get to my office on Monday, there's a floral arrangement on my desk. Hyacinths and violet flowers are fixed in the most delicate and elegant way. Their fragrance fills my office.

They're from Edward.

For some reason, it doesn't surprise me. As much as his words hurt, I can't deny the sincere look on his face when he apologized.

The card is handwritten and something tells me this is his writing, not something he asked the florist to write.

_Isabella, words are not enough to say how sorry I am. E.C. _

I set the card down and take a deep breath. It's getting harder for me to stay mad at him. He has already apologized more times than any person who has hurt me before.

Maybe he cares, too.

"Whoa, who sent these?" Alice asks when she enters my office.

I take off my scarf and my coat before answering. "Edward," I say. There's no way I could keep this hidden from her.

Her eyes get huge, and a grin takes over her face.

Before she asks, I tell her about every interaction I've had with him since the day we met. She listens to every word I say and doesn't reprimand me for not telling her earlier.

Alice is a good friend and it pains me that I haven't allowed myself to get closer to her.

"Wow," she says when I finish.

I nod at her. I can't believe so much has happened.

"Here I was hoping him walking you home would be groundbreaking and he's already seen you naked." She shakes her head and laughs.

"Alice." It's not funny.

She sees my pained expression and stops laughing.

"I think it's great," she says. There's not an ounce of humor on her face or the tone of her voice.

"What?"

"I think you posing for him is great."

We stay silent for a moment. I've been questioning my decision to pose for him since the moment I said yes. Our several altercations haven't helped, but they haven't been enough to make me regret it or to put a stop on them.

I don't know what's wrong with me.

"He thinks I'm a charity case, Al," I say. "Poor little rich girl, trapped in her own mind, self-conscious of her body, let's see what I can do with her."

"That's not what he thinks, Bella."

I shake my head at her.

"He thinks you're intelligent, beautiful and intriguing. _That's_ what he said to Jasper before we invited you to lunch last week," she says. "And it's obvious he feels sorry for his words."

"He said that?" I ask, hating how much it matters that he did.

"Just talk to him, okay?" Alice says. I nod at her. "Now, no more boy talk—we have work to do."

* * *

After a busy Monday, I get home exhausted but determined to put the Edward-situation to rest.

Before texting him, I take a shower, eat dinner and arrange my schedule for the next day.

_You're forgiven._

He replies right away.

_Thank you._

I don't send anything back. There's nothing to say.

The next day, I leave my house at the usual time, telling myself that I'm strong enough to face him if he's at the subway.

But he isn't.

He is, however, waiting for me outside my office with a cup of coffee.

"I got your secretary to confess how you take your coffee. You would think she was guarding a national state secret," he says, taking my scarf from my hands before handing me the cup.

"Thank you," I say, meeting his eyes.

He follows me in, closing the door behind him while I settle at my desk. He sits down, folding and unfolding the scarf, waiting for me to pay attention to him.

I take several sips of my coffee after he mentions it will get cold.

"You could've asked me, you know?" I say, finally looking away from my computer. He arches an eyebrow in question. "About the coffee," I expand. "You didn't have to wrestle the information out of my secretary."

He looks down to his knee, where the scarf is resting. "I wanted to do something nice for you. I wanted to surprise you."

"Thank you," I say again.

Silence falls over us, and I try to do my job while stealing glances at him. He seems to be in a trance, staring at nothing while he twirls the ends of the scarf.

When the awkward atmosphere becomes too much for me to take, I mumble something about having a conference call.

He rushes to stand up, apologizing for interrupting, before making his way out.

He returns seconds later, breathless, to give me back my scarf.

* * *

The rest of the week goes by in the same manner. I find Edward waiting for me each day with a coffee in hand. He waits until I'm settled for the day, making small talk about the weather, before leaving.

It's strange, yet I become accustomed to his quiet presence with ease. There's something about him that soothes me. I don't know what it is, and I don't understand it. It contradicts with the way my heart beats faster when he's near.

On Friday, he's waiting for me with coffee and a brown bag with doughnuts.

I try telling him that I won't eat it, but he's not having it.

I take it from him with a huff before opening the door of my office. He takes a binder I'm carrying from my hands, to let me get out of my coat.

"I already forgave you, you know?" I say when he places the binder and coffee on my desk. "You don't have to keep doing this."

"What if I want to?" he asks, walking toward me.

I look away from him. "Why would you, though?"

He frowns.

"I'm trying to be respectful here, but that question makes me feel really sad for you," he says. I find his eyes, confused by his words. I'm about to talk, but he beats me to it. "Listen, if you want me to stop—"

"I don't."

He's more surprised than I am by my quick reaction.

We stare at each other for a moment before his face breaks into a huge smile. "Okay then," he says, bumping into Alice on his way out.

She closes the door behind me and gives me a knowing look.

"That's the fourth time this week," she says.

I sigh.

"I forgave him after the flowers. He claims this is not about that."

She nods. "It's not."

I change the subject.

She doesn't call me on it.

At the end of the day, as I walk toward Edward's house, the sky is dark, and a small drizzle starts to fall. I quicken my pace, but by the time I'm knocking on his door I'm soaking wet.

"It's raining," I say when he opens, looking like he just rolled out of the warmest bed.

He looks me up and down. "I can see that."

"We can't work on the painting today, can we?" I ask, removing the wet hair sticking to the side of my mouth.

He shakes his head.

"We'll just have to find something to do," he says opening the door wider to let me in.

* * *

**You guys! You're all being so awesome with your reviews. I love them and you. Thank you.**

**Yay to those who got the _Friends_ reference.**

**Also, thank you to Fallingsnow Winter for reccing my story. It means a lot.**

_**See you soon.**_

_**xoxo **_


	12. Contrast

**SM owns.**

**Thank you, as usual, to Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari for their help and awesomeness.**

**Thank you to LittleGreyAche | Yelloglue for the inspiration.**

**Special thanks to Cappricorn75 for recomending the fic over at TLS. **

* * *

**Stripped Desire – Chapter 11: Contrast**

"_I believe that every single event in life happens as an opportunity to choose love over fear." _

_Oprah Winfrey. ~_

* * *

Edward ushers me inside, and walks me to the bathroom, urging me to get out of the wet clothes before I get sick. He looks so concerned that it's kind of endearing.

His movements are rushed.

I lock myself in the bathroom and take off my A-line cream colored skirt, brown jacket and skin-colored stockings. I leave the white tank top on.

Edward knocks to hand me a black sweater from Berkley University and basketball shorts. The sweater is huge, reaching mid-thighs. The shorts get swallowed by the black fabric making it look like I'm wearing a giant, shapeless tent.

I open the door and find Edward waiting for me. He takes my crumpled, wet clothes from my hands and walks away.

I make my way back to the living room, and distract myself with a series of portraits he has lying on his coffee table.

There are detailed, pencil drawings of women parts. They look as real as a photograph. The model could be anyone, but the last one is a close up of the model's face. I recognize her right away: Victoria.

I touch the sheets of paper, but let them go when I feel his presence in the room.

"That's for the next viewing," he says, standing behind me. I nod. "That selection is called _Regal_."

I turn to face him, noticing he's not as close as he feels. "Why?"

He sits down on the couch and asks me to join him. I do.

"The drawings are soft and delicate, not at all what you think of when you hear the word regal. For some reason, people think women can't be all those things at the same time," he says.

I stare at him for a minute.

"Does it make sense?" he asks, searching my eyes.

I nod. "It does."

He smiles. He focuses his attention to the drawings, rearranging them on the table before stacking them to put them away.

"Why did you pick her?" I ask just as he stands up. He looks down at me, clutching the stack to his chest.

"Victoria's a firecracker. We met when I was in college," he says, sitting back down. "Not in NYU, in Berkley. We lost touch when I came to study here, but then I ran into her in France." He smiles at the memory. "I painted her there several times and sold those. Then, when she heard about the gallery she said she wanted to be a part of it, so I worked with her two more times. The first series of paintings were at the gallery for the opening. These are the second ones," he says, holding up the stack.

I nod at him and mull over this information, wondering why he choose NYU over Berkley.

It feels as if I'm putting a puzzle together with every tiny aspect of his life. The result is most likely guaranteed to vary from the picture on the box.

Edward Cullen seems to be full of surprises.

"My mom loves these paintings," he says, bringing me out of my thoughts. His face looks so peaceful. Talking about his parents is not an issue for him. It makes me smile a little. Then, I frown.

"Where is she?" I ask, aware that this is yet another area of his life I have no knowledge about.

He gives me a knowing look. Sometimes, I feel so predictable when talking to him. He makes me feel as if he knows every word that I'm going to speak before I've even thought about it.

"She lives in North Carolina with my grandmother," he says.

"And your father?" I ask, not being able to keep my curiosity in check. That question seems to surprise him a little. I give myself a pat on the back.

"That's a good question. Never met him," he says.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

In this moment, it makes sense. His appreciation for women's strength, his comments about lacking money. He was raised by his single mom.

The air is now tense with the heavy subject hovering over us. I search for a new thing to talk about but come up empty. I just want to know more.

"Do you miss them? Your family?" I ask.

He looks at me with those green eyes and smiles. It's a dangerous combination.

"Yeah. I can't wait to visit them. Or have them visit me. Whichever," he says.

"Would your grandmother come to New York?"

"Are you kidding?" he asks, smirking. "I'm living in her house."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it used to be from an aunt, and when she passed away she left it to my great grandmother, then to my grandma'. She only used it in the summers, but yeah, Grandma' Cullen knows her way around New York, which is why I'm dying for her to come."

I chuckle, while putting away the new piece of information. He kept his mother's last name. Of course.

He smiles a timid smile. "What about you? Do you miss your family?"

The smile on my face vanishes. I can feel my body clamping down, rejecting this subject.

"Um, I talk to them on the phone," I say, not really answering.

"That doesn't answer my question," he says, not missing a beat.

"It's just," I start and stop myself. Am I going to have this conversation with Edward? Do I want to tell him?

"Isabella," he says, prompting me to answer him.

"My family is just a bit intense," I say.

He frowns. "Intense how?"

"A bit controlling, I guess."

I refrain the urge to snort. A bit.

"Oh. Families are that way sometimes, but in the end, they only care that you're happy."

I look away from him. "Right."

"Isabella?" he says after a moment of silence. I face him again. "I'm sorry about what I said the other night."

I nod.

He touches my chin, urging me to meet his eyes. He must know they are my weakness.

We stay like that for a moment, closer than we've been before, staring at each other's eyes. I want to kiss him.

I do.

And by the way he's looking at my mouth, I'd say he wants to kiss me, too.

If he kisses me, I'm a goner. I know this.

So I move away from his hold and break the spell.

The hurt on his face matches the pain inside my heart.

He gets up and puts the paintings away while I listen the rain fall.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asks from behind the giant mural.

Feeling bold and ruled by my curiosity, I walk to the kitchen.

The room is painted in a darker cream tone. There aren't any paintings on the walls. Everything hanging in here are kitchen utensils: dish towels, measuring cups, several can openers.

It looks like the kitchens on the cooking channel.

"I wanted to make hot chocolate but I'm lacking some things," he says when he sees me, with an apology on his face. "I could make tea." He holds the little box to my line of sight.

I look at him for a moment, wondering how he can act so normal after what just happened. Isn't his heart racing like mine? Isn't his skin burning?

"Tea is fine," I say, attempting to be as cool as he is.

He gets to work, moving with ease around his kitchen. I have a steaming cup of tea in a matter of minutes.

We walk together back to the living room and sit back down on the couch. He faces me with his whole body.

"Did you mean what you said?" I ask, looking at him. He frowns in confusion. "About why you wanted to paint me?"

He takes a sip of his tea, smiles. "I did."

"Intelligent, beautiful, and intriguing. Is that what you see?"

He looks taken aback and I feel a sense of victory at having the upper hand.

The wind blows the curtains of one of the windows. He stands up to fix it.

"It is. But," he starts and stops himself.

"What?"

I walk toward him, standing a few steps behind, and stare at the back of his neck.

"That's not what I want to portray on my canvas," he says, facing me. I take a step back, terrified by the intensity of his green eyes. "Anyone can see you're intelligent, beautiful, and intriguing. I want something else."

He steps closer.

"What do you want?" I ask.

He looks at my mouth, licks his lower lip. I'm not sure how many times I can resist these types of interactions.

But then he finds my eyes again and I almost wish he hadn't.

"Something just for me," he says. "Something only I can see."

* * *

I get home at 8:00 pm on a cab that Edward payed.

The intense moment we shared was followed by awkward silence and a lot of fumbling on my part. I made myself clear that I needed to get home, even if it was raining.

So I got back into my semi-dry clothes and asked him to call me a cab.

He didn't seem happy about it, but in the end he picked up the phone and did it.

When the taxi arrived, he walked me toward it with an umbrella and payed the taxi fare up front. I had no say in the matter.

I sigh, entering my bedroom to undress. My cell phone beeps with a text.

_Did you get home safe?_

I type an affirmative and jump in the shower, eager to get into my comfortable clothes.

After, I eat some light dinner before settling in my bed with my agenda while the T.V is on for background noise.

Just before I'm drifting off to sleep, my cell phone chirps again.

_Go to the gallery tomorrow?_

I bite my lip, my fingers hovering over the phone screen.

I know for a fact I have nothing to do. Saying yes could be so easy.

My internal debate is exhausting and I'm already sleepy. Without dedicating more time to think about it, I type a response.

_We'll see._

He doesn't reply right away.

I fall asleep clutching the phone to my chest.

* * *

When I get to the gallery on Saturday, the place is packed.

I look around for Edward and find him near a corner. Somehow, there's a lot of empty space around him. It reminds me of when I find him on the train, always separated from the crowd.

I start to make myself go to him, but come to a stop when I notice he has company. There's a blonde bombshell on his arm. She's wearing tight jeans, and a see-through blouse.

She laughs a loud laugh while fixing the collar of his shirt.

He looks at her with soft, green eyes, and a smile on his face. I watch for a few more seconds as it turns into a flirty smirk.

I look away but curiosity gets the best of me and I look back just in time to see her whispering something in his ear.

I make my way to the exit in quick strides, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Once outside, the lights and the sounds of the city overwhelm me. I slow my walking to recover myself.

"Isabella, wait up!" Edward says, his voice somehow finding its way above the noise. He runs toward me, just as I'm about to cross the street. I take a deep breath and stop walking.

"Where are you going?" he asks when he reaches me.

He touches my arm, urging me to face him completely.

"I'm leaving," I say, and move myself out of his touch.

He frowns, but lets his hand fall back to his side.

"What? Why?"

I shake my head and wrap my arms around myself. "I can't stay. I have other plans."

He stares at me with such intensity. For a second, I feel lost, unsure of where I am or where I'm going.

A look of determination settles on his face before he nods.

"Okay. See you on Monday, I guess," he says.

I walk away.

The farther I get from the gallery and from Edward the more alone I feel.

Why couldn't I just approach Edward and his blond companion?

Maybe there was a logical explanation, maybe she was just a friend. _Albeit a close one._

I get the urge to turn around and listen to his explanation—if he has any.

And then, the painful reminder settles on my heart.

He doesn't owe me anything.

* * *

**You are all so kind and good to me. I feel overwhelmed, humbled and so thankful for the positive response and the feedback.**

**Also, thank you for the patience with the pace of the story.**

**And of course, thank you for reading.**

_**See you soon.**_

_**xo**_


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